


Tout à Coup

by Yilena



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Minor Character Death, Reality TV, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yilena/pseuds/Yilena
Summary: When her ruined first love turns into a popular rivalry on live television, with fans and friends alike pushing them together, Marinette has no choice but to obey the supercomputer named Papillon in her brain. AU.





	1. 01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be considered a _Be More Chill_ AU, but only the supercomputer part since the rest of the plot isn't relevant to this. SQUIP has been changed to KWAMI (that was a bitch to try and find words for). I'm not going into detail about singing, I won't be using technical terms that some might have to research the meaning of, so it'll be really vague. The only music show I've watched is _I Can See Your Voice_ , so thank you so so much to _powerdragonmoon_ and _simply-zerah_ for helping me out with this, because I absolutely have no idea how any of them work. 
> 
> \- ̗̀art ̖́- [aoirin](http://aoirin.tumblr.com/tagged/tout-%C3%A0-coup), [jenneshi](https://jenneshi.tumblr.com/post/170359749900), [salty](http://salty-french-fry.tumblr.com/post/169598249832).

  _Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir © Thomas Astruc_

“Didn't your mother teach you that it's rude to stare, Arin?”

Averting her gaze instantly, staring at the scribbled notes on the desk and the pencil that was clutched in her pale-skinned hand too tightly, Marinette avidly tried to avoid confrontation. It wasn't that she was afraid to stand up for herself; rather, the teasing comments and laughs that were directed her way had never been thwarted by her rebuttals. They wouldn't be bothered by her reddened cheeks from anger, nor the balled up fists that she'd never had the courage to attempt to use in her own defence.

It was just words, after all.

No matter how many times her mother cooed about how beautiful her daughter was, pulling her into warm embraces that had her wanting more, and assured her that the best in life was yet to come when they repaired their clothes while basked in the dull light from the melted candles on the table as she sang softly underneath her breath, she knew that words could still hurt—especially when they were aimed at the aspects of herself that she was self-conscious about, regardless of how often they were uttered.

The worst was the nickname. Her class-mates, even those that she didn't have classes with, picked up on the habit of referring to her as it. The teachers hovered nearby sometimes, reprimanding the rude remarks by putting emphasis of her last name and title in hopes of stopping them, but it was never enough. Students wouldn't be placed in detention—which consisted of missing their breaks, instead of eating their lunches in a quiet classroom away from others—for their petty words alone.

“Wrong bathroom, _Arin_!” the other girls would say, gasping dramatically before bursting out into laughter with their friends.

She kept her gaze straight ahead at such times.

It had started early on after she'd graduated onto higher education. They'd all appeared in the hall with chubby cheeks, nervously adjusting clothing since they were accustomed to wearing uniforms, and wide eyes as they stared at their new headmaster as they introduced themselves. After a few weeks had passed, where each individual slowly transitioned into more comfortable clothing rather than the pristine and well coordinated outfits that they'd first arrived in, that was when attention was directed her way.

Sure, she'd interacted and introduced herself in each class (complete with clammy palms and wobbly smiles), yet it was one comment that set off the downward spiral of events that caused her harassment at school.

“Are you sure you're a girl?” one of her class-mates questioned, facial features pinched together in clear distaste as her green-coloured eyes stared accusingly at her outfit. “You should just be a boy. The appearance part you've already got down.”

Marinette had furrowed her eyebrows in confusion, uncertain about the sudden attention that was thrown her way. Then, the following week when she'd turned up in ratty trousers and a sweater that was worn purely to hide a hole in her shirt, the remarks about her name started.

They called her Arin, laughter filling the air once she'd realised the purpose of the name, the itchy feeling to her eyes alerting her that tears were welling up.

They caught that, too. “ _Boys_ don't cry, Arin!”

Of course they did. No matter how Marinette corrected them, or stubbornly walked past into the changing rooms or bathroom, the name stuck with her. The other classes soon learned through their friends about the untidy boy they'd seen roaming through the halls, and it was to her horror that some really did believe her gender to belong to the other sex.

Despite the call of, “ _Miss Cheng_ ,” they didn't bother to correct themselves, promptly ignoring the reminders that were uttered through every taking of attendance.

School was horrible, she decided. While the learning part was one she could indulge herself in, to earn the warm and proud smiles sent her way from her mother, the breaks and being in the presence of a near eighty percent of the school was the part that she hated. As her cheeks thinned out, height was added to her small frame, and training brassieres had been replaced, things didn't change. Each week in education was a never-ending cycle that left her feeling hollow until her mother wrapped her arms around her, humming a soft tune that made her feeling comfortable and glad to have someone so positive close to her.

She wasn't much to look at, she knew. Marinette had short black hair that she kept cropped for convenience (conditioner was a luxury they didn't indulge in often), an upturned nose, mono-lidded eyes that she'd inherited from her mother, and cerulean-coloured irides that had, apparently, been a gift from her unknown father.

While she was good at remembering details, but had terrible hand-to-eye coordination, she found that her drawings were usually messy scrawls that dimmed in comparison to her class-mates' work. She continued to be called Arin, to stay close to herself through the passing months, textbooks and supplies kept close in her bag so they wouldn't be scribbled on without consent.

There was one thing she was particularly good at, though. Her mother had complimented her on her singing for as long as she could remember, and when she'd sang along to a tune that was playing on the radio one afternoon and hit the high notes without trouble or strain, it had hit her that something she enjoyed, a hobby that didn't cost money as she wasn't asking for pen or paper to improve, was something she was good at, too.

Her mother encouraged her to sing when they cuddled up when they couldn't afford heating, to hum and sing underneath her breath as they cooked dinner together, whispering compliments while kissing her on the forehead to show her affection. Marinette was overjoyed that it was cherished and valued, so proud when one of their neighbours agreed that her voice was beautiful—that she needed to be quiet after a certain time at night, though—that she'd taken her mother's hand and started to spin the two of them around the kitchen.

She hoped her singing was as beautiful as her mother's laugh.

Marinette doodled lyrics in the margins of her notes, tried to recall tunes that she'd heard playing from her class-mates' cell phones when she was alone during lunch, and used her talent of memory to memorise the different songs she heard. She had a small notepad filled with verses, nursery rhymes that she added lines to and fleshed out, sometimes testing them out in her soft tones as she sang to her mother.

Once, when she was fourteen, her mother had burst into tears after Marinette had held a steady high-pitched note and replicated a song her mother was fond of, embracing her tightly as she apologising for not being able to afford singing lessons.

As her breasts began to grow—but not fast enough to counteract the unpleasant nickname—Marinette started to notice the opposite sex; or, rather, one individual caught her eye. Three times a week he was in the classroom across from hers, visible through the windows as she was seated beside one. She absent-mindedly watched him at first, wondering whether he was one of those that snickered and claimed she was entering the wrong toilet, only to realise that no, she didn't really recognise him.

They were in the same year, she knew that much. Their schedules were different, so the only time she'd seen him for months on end had been in the allotted time where they classrooms were facing each other across a small yard.

She noticed his smile at first; from the distance she could see the wide grin—the _dimples—_ and eventually she found herself wondering what it would be like to talk to him. He seemed genuinely kind from their distance, bright and friendly to anyone to approached him, always sat at his assigned desk, alone. Sometimes he'd be assigned partners, though they were never the same, and she often watched as his bored eyes, that she couldn't tell the colour of, scanned the courtyard for a distraction.

The mop of natural blond-coloured hair couldn't have been hard to find. So, she ate her lunch in a corner of the dining hall once a week, taking a break from the time she spent in the music rooms (where anyone was welcome, as long as a teacher was in the room and no food or drink was brought inside), idly glancing up from her table to scan the queues to see whether he was buying his meal.

She didn't see him, though. Marinette continued to admire him from a distance, blushing furiously when the scribbles in her margins were terrible doodles of him, and it didn't take long for her class-mates to realise where her attention was directed. It took them a week before the end of that school term, and then she kept her eyes firmly on the paper—in _her_ classroom—ignoring the laughs and nudges that they gave each other.

That summer, her neighbourhood was filled with light-hearted songs and happiness. Her neighbours started to request songs in the afternoon when the sun was out, when the lot of them were hanging up their clothing to dry naturally. Marinette indulged them, overwhelmed and endlessly happy as she saw the smiles appear on their faces, just pleased that there was a form of acceptance and appreciation for something that she enjoyed. At home, in a street that had holes in the road and leaking windows, there was no childish accusation of her gender, no snickers when she tripped over; it was filled with love and acceptance, noisy neighbours at times, but it was _home_.

She returned to school for the new year, a grade higher with confidence. Some of the teachers had complimented her singing, asking her whether she was planning to choose that class to study, even though the school didn't have any clubs. There was no choir, no physical activity; the only time students stayed behind was for detentions that were handed out.

He had green eyes, Marinette found out.

She'd passed him in a hallway, momentarily startled as their shoulders brushed, and he'd politely apologised—voice not cracking as some of her class-mates' did—before disappearing in the classroom next to hers.

Then it happened again the following week, and her cheeks warmed as she stepped out of the way, not attracting his attention as he passed. It was the closest that they'd been, and she still didn't know his _name—_ just that he was taller than her, had dimples when he smiled which made her heart beat faster, and the way he'd apologised to her had caused her to smile until her cheeks hurt.

While he was in the classroom beside hers once a week, she still saw him on the opposite side of the courtyard twice a week, but he was hidden by the desk-mate that had taken his seat by the window. That didn't stop her from watching him, though.

The piece of paper that she'd been scribbling out fractions and absent-mindedly doodling his hair and face in a child-like style was stolen halfway through the year. It had fallen to the floor as she'd been packing away her belongings, only for one of her class-mates to quickly snatch it up and look over the contents. She watched in horror as the grin stretched across their face, and then they were off, running along to their friends without handing her back her paper.

She needed it for homework, too.

It disappeared out of the classroom before she could put the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Marinette mourned the loss, hoping that her memory would suffice for the equations that evening. As it turned out, she seemed to be okay, and the teacher didn't complain about her homework the following week.

The worst happened when she sat in the dining hall for her one meal inside a week. Marinette slowly ate her food, shooting blank looks at those that stared at the foreign food (it had been the routine since she was little, and her mother insisted that she should eat what she enjoyed, not what the others expected her to), eyes flickering towards the queue and the doors every few minutes.

There was someone approaching her table. It was a small one in the corner, only able to fit three or four people, neglected and often overlooked as students preferred to group together on the larger tables, piling in and sitting on each other's laps. Marinette stilled and looked up to identify the newcomer, almost choking on her mouthful as she caught sight of the head of blond-coloured hair.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asked politely, a bottle of water in his hand. There was no food on him, and it was clear that his bag was hidden away in a classroom for safekeeping.

Chewing her food for longer than necessary, Marinette replied with a half-hearted shrug, nervous heart hammering in her chest. She wanted to know why he was approaching her after years of not knowing each other; goodness, Marinette didn't know whether they'd bumped into each other when they were little, as she'd only started to notice his existence in those boring classes across from him.

“Okay, thank you.” The blond-haired male smiled, though it didn't show the indents of his cheeks. She assumed it wasn't sincere, and that little piece of information had her gripping her cutlery tighter. “I—this is the first time we're talking, right? I'm Adrien.”

She gulped, awkwardly averting her gaze as her cheeks warmed. Of all the times she'd tried to predict his name, or perhaps try and connect the gossip from her class-mates to him, she hadn't considered that to be it—but it was nice, and it suited him.

He fiddled with the bottle. “Right, well, okay. I know who you are, and you know me. Yes.”

That statement didn't do anything good for her heart. Marinette chose to put her lunch away with clumsy hands as she breathed out, “Oh?”

“Yes, I—” Adrien cut himself off and cleared his throat, a hand reaching up to touch the nape of his neck nervously. “I got your letter. I mean, that's why I'm here—because of the letter, you know?”

No, she didn't know. Her face must've been blank, too, because he furrowed his eyebrows as both of his hands fiddled with the bottle once more, no longer self-consciously touching his neck. Marinette hadn't even known his name before that day, and the closest thing they'd had to a conversation had been him apologising to her once. It was silly and childish to have a crush because of that, but he was a shining part of school that didn't mock or tease her, someone that was out of her reach but seemed ever-so-kind.

“I'm flattered, really, but I—I don't think you're my type?” It came out as a question, and he looked just as baffled as she felt as he raised his hand and flailed them slightly as he correct himself with, “I mean, you're not for _me—_ oh, no, I—”

It sounded like a rejection to a confession that she hadn't uttered. Marinette blinked, aware of her burning face and the stares that were directed their way; Adrien had started rambling quite loudly from his nerves, hands moving to emphasise his words and attract attention as he did so. Her blue-coloured eyes flickered to some of her snickering class-mates, who seemed to have smug smiles as they elbowed each other, and that was when an uncomfortable feeling became apparent in her stomach.

He blurted, “I'm not into guys.”

And that was how her first love was crushed.

-x-

With her mother insisting that she had a gift—and one of her teachers agreeing, too—Marinette gathered the courage to attend singing auditions, sometimes sending a video online of some of the notes that she could hit in a particularly hard song, and she found success by the age of seventeen.

The problem was that the success wasn't to her actual name. They'd praised and applauded at her voice, stating that she was one of the best that they'd ever had and would adore to work with her, and then the catch had came.

They already had a face that they wanted to use, and they only needed a voice to match.

Yet at seventeen, with her hair cut short dressed in ratty clothing, Marinette took a chance for the money. She accepted the terms and conditions, she signed the contract; she wrote away the rights to her voice for three years, promising to be the sweet voice behind the beautiful face they'd found. The money was enough for her to say yes to, and the prospect of success and earning even more spurred her on. She fantasised about the new home she could help pay for, the better quality clothing, even the ingredients that they could afford as time passed, and that was what caused her to have a real smile when she told her mother that she was going to do it.

Her mother supported her no matter what, embracing her tightly and telling her that if that was what she wanted to do with her life, then she should go for it.

She was the voice to Chloé, who turned out to be a blue-eyed blonde-haired female with long hair, a tall body with desired proportions, and a killer smirk that appeared when she teased those that helped produce her. Chloé had heads turning to look at her in the street when she walked, but when she opened her mouth to sing, they _ran_. She was utterly tone-deaf and not afraid to admit it, so when Marinette met her, the blonde swept her into a tight hug and exclaimed, “ _Finally_!”

It wasn't too bad. Marinette's job was to sing, to sync with Chloe's lips when she sang live in concert (never on the radio, as there would be those that would be suspicious of Marinette's presence). She was an admired shadow working in the background, appreciated and called her real name when she was greeted, and the friendship that she'd struck with Chloé made it enjoyable.

They weren't that close, though. When they were photographed together outside, the blonde often referred to her as part of her team, never specifically saying her job, and Marinette faded into the background as her hair slowly grow and her clothes were replaced by better quality versions.

Her body filled out as she matured, and her short height was something Chloé teased her about when they were at the recording studio together, especially since the blonde-haired female liked to walk around in high-heeled shoes, making it so Marinette was level with her breasts (which tended to be on display from her preference in clothing). Marinette started to wear pretty-looking dresses, flowing skirts that were fun to move in as she swayed while singing in the background, embracing her femininity as she'd outgrown the teasing nickname.

There was no one left in her life that knew her as Arin, and she felt _free_. Marinette was happy and pleased with herself, often feeling close to hyperventilating when she checked her bank account to see the numbers that were displayed there.

Chloé's first single had hit number one on multiple radio stations and nominated for awards, all of which caused her salary to rise with each success, and by the time her first mini-album was released, Chloé had held countless live performances. They had performed flawlessly from their practice; Marinette knew Chloé's quirks, how she loved to talk and address the crowd, and there was a small signal that she saw from the monitor in front of her that alerted her that the song was about to start. It was a tried and tested system, one that she'd been assured that would work.

After a concert, without fail, Chloé would go backstage and walk towards her slowly, breaths coming fast despite the fact that she'd been syncing her lips, and pull Marinette into quick sweaty embrace of gratitude. The blonde-haired female was particularly fond of hugging; whenever something good happened, even in public as they were entering a building as a group, she'd pull others into embraces to express her feelings.

There was a whole magazine article dedicated to pictures of Chloé hugging people once.

The blonde was adored for her voice, requested for events and held multiple concerts, steadily releasing songs every few months with no sign of stopping. Marinette shared the success, proudly chipping in to afford a new home that she shared with her mother. She still sang in the evenings, only making sure it wasn't too loud so the neighbours could hear and identify her. Sometimes, she laughed and told her mother that maybe their neighbourhood would think that she was blasting Chloé's song loudly.

While Chloé attended parties and interviews, being showered in attention and offers to extend her career to television and films, Marinette honed her singing techniques with professional coaches in the studio, listening to the higher-ups that told her what to do. She was obedient, not protesting the change of genre, and she continuously hit the notes that were asked of her, working on her techniques to receive positive reviews.

Chloé only had to cancel two concerts in their three years together due to Marinette's health. They'd rode the success together along with Chloé's company—who didn't have any other singers, something a lot of people remarked on—and it was at a company outing to a nightclub that everything changed.

There was a few days left for her to decide whether to sign another contract and continue on Chloé's success. Otherwise, the plan was for them to find a new singer and claim the blonde had fallen victim to an illness, one that would apparently warrant a change in her voice. Marinette was considering it, wondering whether she wanted to sign away her chances of success; to those that she met outside of work, to her mother's friends and the family that she spoke to overseas, she was Marinette, the girl that hadn't attended further education and had no job.

She didn't know whether she wanted to be that for the upcoming years, too, so she distracted herself by agreeing to go out for the evening.

Chloé had insisted on the particular club because she was the face on one of the posters. It was fancy, high-end with bouncers outside and a special section for important guests that the whole group was sitting in.

Marinette was sipping her brightly-coloured drink, listening to the loud and demanding music, adjusting the length of her dress to try and make it cover her thighs. Chloé had fluttered her way into the office, demanding everyone to meet up there, and complimented her on the soft-looking material and the modest cut that didn't show her cleavage. She confessed that it was something that she would've liked to wear, but her persona of outgoing Chloé didn't allow her to, especially not to a club.

The blonde was actually a sweet person, in her own way. She was painfully honest, so much so that it came across as rude to those that didn't know her, and it had almost caused trouble during interviews because of it—but Chloé _cared. S_ he genuinely complimented people when they deserved it, smiled and laughed at jokes, responded with witty comments that had many falling for her personality as well as her voice.

The dark-haired female didn't protest as Chloé linked their hands together, tugging her towards the dance floor. Although she'd originally felt awkward and out of place, especially back when she'd been eighteen and had newly found flowing dresses, Chloé had grinned and promised to show her the basics of dancing.

So, they danced and laughed together. Marinette swatted away the wandering hands that came their way sometimes, and she could spy Chloé's bodyguard watching from the sidelines, making sure that the two of them weren't in danger (he was nice, and offered Marinette the hard-boiled sweets that he kept tucked in his pockets when they were alone).

It was after a few more drinks—not alcoholic, she preferred to stay sober for the ride home—that Chloé sauntered over to her again, slumping down in the seat beside her.

“My feet _hurt_ ,” she grouched.

Marinette snorted. “Then wear those cool-looking boots that you did the other day. You know, the flat ones you adore?”

When she was tipsy, Chloé had a tendency to ramble and move her hands as she talked. It was quite endearing, along with being a good tell of when she was on her way to becoming horrendously drunk. “I wish. I've been wearing heels in public for three years straight, I practically cry with relief whenever I put slippers on.”

Her lips tugged into a smile. “And what about when you put on your loose pyjamas?”

“I _sob_.”

“Someday, you'll sign up to do a documentary and then everyone will know how much of a dork you are,” Marinette remarked, bumping her shoulder against the blonde's gently. “Don't you want to dance any more?”

Chloé sat upright as she shook her head, swaying and almost falling on the floor from being disorientated. Then, she reached across the seats for the small bag that she'd entrusted to her bodyguard (he did look wonderful carrying the pink-coloured purse), searching intently through her belongings until she managed to find what she wanted with a noise of triumph.

“You okay there?” Marinette questioned.

Thrusting the small plastic case towards her and into her hands, Chloé grinned. “More than okay. This is a—I mean, this is some expensive ass medicine for your voice, okay? Your voice is my voice—Marinette, it's _our_ voice,” she rambled on excitedly, eagerly gesturing towards the case. “Take it and grow up nice and strong, okay? I can practically see our name in shining lights already.”

“Chloé, you've literally had your name spelled out in lights at concerts,” she responded dryly.

A guffaw left her. “There's a tiny, absolutely miniscule, line at the bottom that says your name. Maybe it's in the shape of a star, because that's what you are.”

“Okay, rhymer,” Marinette tried to appease her with a small laugh, tucking away the case in her own bag for later use. “You're on your way to being horribly drunk if you're complimenting me and rhyming in the same sentence. Let's get you home, okay?”

It was smoother than some of her other exits in public. Someone stronger than Marinette had Chloé's arm over their shoulder as they left, minimal pictures were taken, and another hard-boiled sweet found its way into her bag by the time she was dropped off a few streets away from her home.

Marinette didn't think about the pill until the next morning when she was tidying up her room. She sucked on the sweet, finding it was one of her favourite flavours, and played with the plastic case in her hands. It was half the size of her palm, circular, and rattled when she shook it. Opening it revealed a single capsule pill, not sugar-coated like Chloé preferred for most of her medicine, and there wasn't a sheet of paper to act as instructions.

It was given to the blonde because of her status, though, and cleared by security beforehand to make sure that it wasn't dangerous. It wasn't a drug that had been offered on the dance floor or bought from a dealer, so she figured that she could take it. She was often given vitamins and other medicine to keep her healthy and make sure her throat was fine, to recover from the common illnesses, too, so she figured that Chloé hadn't given her an illegal substance (an article accused her of doing cocaine a year ago, when it was actually flour on her blouse as Marinette had been teaching her to bake for her boyfriend back then).

She swallowed the pill with a mouthful of water.

The day was spent by doing household chores while her mother was at work—adamant that no matter how much her daughter was earning, they would share the payment—and it was just as she was folding laundry that a splitting pain appeared in her head.

Marinette fell forward onto her knees from the sudden dizziness, hands raised to her head to rub at her temples as she winced, helpless and baffled from the sudden onslaught that had appeared. As her vision blurred and the pressured increased, she took in a gasping breath, squeezing her eyes shut tight in an attempt to combat the pain, muttering words of denial to herself. It didn't stop, though, and she wound up hugging her legs to her chest, resting her forehead on her knees as she tried to take in steady breaths to try and quell her raging heartbeat.

The pulse in her head was loud and demanding, reminding her of her erratic heartbeat as the seconds passed, and her breaths were shaky as she started to rub what was supposed to be soothing circles into her temples.

Then a voice sounded in the empty room, alerting her to their presence with the words, “Calibration in process.”

She squeezed her eyes shut tighter. The pain was making it so she couldn't tell where they were standing, and the fact that she'd been alone since her mother was due back for a few hours had her already fast-beating heart skipping a nervous beat. She wasn't prepared to fight an intruder as she was then, and definitely not defend herself if she had to fight. Marinette doubted she could stand up as the pain continued.

Violent throbs appeared in her head, hitting her in different sections of her head all at once and causing her to released a choked breath as she tried to hide in her knees.

And then, there was a moment of clarity, peacefulness, and no pain. Marinette's brain felt fuddled, her movements were sluggish as she let her hands fall down to her sides, bleary eyes opening to take in her blurry surroundings.

There was no one in front of her, yet she heard, “Calibration complete.”

Through the dizziness she frantically looked around, hands gripping onto her shirt tightly from the nerves, but all she could see was the empty surroundings around here. The only sounds in the room were her ragged breaths, the wheezing noises of pain that she was only just getting over, and that utterly baffled her. Was—goodness, did Chloé _drug_ her?

The same voice, one that was low and deep, announced, “Access procedure initiated.”

She didn't have time to react because the pain was _there—_ attacking her so she fell forward, gasps escaping as she scrunched her eyes shut in denial and utter terror. How had the pill gotten through their security if it would have this kind of side effect? Marinette felt nauseated, her stomach was twisting uncomfortably as her throat grew dry, threatening to empty the meal that she'd eaten for breakfast without a second thought.

Tears grew in her eyes as a distressed noise left her.

The voice wasn't deterred, though. The hallucination—she didn't know if it was classed that if she wasn't able to actually _see_ it—continued on to drawl, “Access procedure complete.”

The pain disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, and she was left with her hands on the floor, wetness dribbling from her eyes as her chest heaved.

“Marinette Cheng, welcome to your _Kinda Wired Alternate Mind Interface_ ,” they drawled, tone sounding cold and aloof as they addressed her. “Your _Kwami_. However, you may refer to me as Papillon, if it suits you.”

She promptly vomited.

-x-

Her _Kwami_ , Papillon, was more than a hallucination. If they'd been the result of drugs, she might've been relieved and actually happy, but it turned out that Chloé had given her a supercomputer that was able to communicate directly to her brain (meaning they weren't present in the room, but that didn't stop her from frantically searching the room before she cleared up her sick).

They told her their mission immediately.

“I'm here to improve your life,” they stated directly in that same bland tone that she'd heard when her head had been splitting from the pain. “You may think of me as your very personal trainer, child, for you will be undoubtedly changed for the better in the foreseeable future.”

Marinette had cried until her eyes were swollen and red, tried to stick her fingers to the back of her throat to cause herself to vomit and rid herself of the pill, but when she raised her hand to her mouth, her body grew rigid and wasn't listening to the signals her brain was sending.

“You will behave,” they chastised her as Marinette stared with wide and terrified eyes at her unresponsive arm, trying her hardest to tug and push to create some sort of movement. All she could do was make grunting noises of her efforts, unrewarded by any of them. “If not, I will punish you as I see fit.”

It wasn't pain in her head that time.

The dark-haired female had knitted her eyebrows together in confusion, unsure whether to believe that the supercomputer was capable of doing it—even if it had informed her that it was buried in her brain and irremovable—and then she became aware of the liquid that was starting to drip from her nose.

They released a humourless laugh. “I can do more than that if you're disobedient.”

And if that wasn't absolutely terrifying, she didn't know what was. Marinette tried to ask Papillon what they wanted her to do, only to receive the answer that they were inside her brain, knew her memories and innermost thoughts, so she didn't need to answer aloud if she wished to communicate with them. That alone was unsettling, but the computer was quiet most of the time.

They allowed her to be herself at home. When she was with her mother, Papillon was quiet, allowing her to do as she wished as she sang shakily, not quite as enthusiastic as normal. Her mother caught onto her distress within minutes, wrapping her into a hug and softly asking what was wrong.

Papillon made it so she couldn't open her mouth. “I can read your thoughts, Miss Cheng. I know you—I am a part of _you_.”

She cried when she was alone in her room again that evening. Marinette sniffled grossly, rubbing frantically at her damp eyes, wondering why such an unfortunate thing had happened to her. The worst thing, in her opinion, was that Papillon didn't sound robotic; no, they sounded like a bored adult, similar to a regretful teacher that hated their students. There was no emotion or affection in their voice, only demands and criticism.

“I will not allow you to wallow for long, child,” they murmured in her head, low and at a consistently average volume. “You may cry your tears for now, to grow out of this childishness, and then we will work on bettering you.”

A choked noise escaped her. “What—why _me_? This was intended for Chloé, don't you want to go to her?” the dark-haired female asked through her sobs.

“I was not created with the intent of helping a specific person,” Papillon replied without missing a beat. “Now that we are companions, it is my duty to help you further yourself, Miss Cheng. There may be a time in the future where other versions are implemented in others, but for now, you are my priority, and we must take advantage of your society's ignorance of my existence.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, gripping at the roots tightly and feeling the pain, a reminder that she wasn't having a twisted dream. With her eyes clenched shut, Marinette questioned, “If you're a—a _Kwami_ , then why are you called Papillon?”

A no nonsense tone answered, “ _Kinda Wired Alternate Mind Interface_ is to me what being human is to you, child. Papillon was decided for my particular model because of my upgrades and abilities.”

That sounded menacing as it was. Marinette wondered whether the other _Kwamis_ were capable of causing the physical pain and control, or if that was the upgrades that they were talking about. There was also the fact that she was able to communicate—and hear—a supposed supercomputer that had implanted itself into her brain from swallowing a pill. She was confused and alone, unable to seek answers elsewhere.

When she tried to type into an internet browser for answers, Papillon controlled her hands. They chastised her like a tiny pet in training, a child that was just learning to walk and do things, and it was a humiliating experience. Marinette had just grown comfortable with herself, surrounded by positive people and success, and yet now there was a unfathomable computer pulling the strings to her body, making her into a marionette without feelings or desires.

“You're rather melodramatic,” they observed.

A hysterical laugh spilled from her lips. “I have a supercomputer in my head telling me what to do, don't try and tell me I'm overreacting.” And then another laugh escaped her, breathy and sounding like she was going to start wheezing as the guffaws continued, desperate noises that sounded maniacal as she gripped at her hair still, disbelief rattling her. “Just—what are _you_?”

Papillon steadily stated, “I do not fit into human genders.”

Tears appeared in her eyes as she laughed until her lungs protested, her stomach hurt, and she was hunched over on the floor looking as pathetic as she felt. She heaved in a shaky breath as the laughter stopped, blinking frantically as she croaked, “T-this is kinda weird.”

There was no answer from them.

And then she realised what she'd said, and the laughter started up again. It was a lot better than crying, after all.

Papillon allowed her one day to wallow, as they'd put it. Her memories and life had been reviewed and criticised, even more so when they found out that she enjoyed her work when she didn't receive rewards or recognition for her voice, and the _Kwami_ forced her to reject signing the contract that agreed to work with Chloé for the upcoming three years. Marinette stood there with her hands clenched tightly into fists, uncertain and stubborn, not wanting to let a unknown force dictate her life while she was standing in the office.

So, they took it as a sign of her rebelling against them again, and caused blood to start to drip from her nostrils, a throbbing appearing at the back of her head that made her feel dizzy. It was a show of power, willing her to kneel and accept what was happening, and it was in front of the pale faces of the higher-ups in the company that she wiped the blood on the back of her hand—ignoring the steady dripping that continued because she knew it could be stopped on demand—and rejected them.

She signed a new contract that bound her to keep her identity of the past three years a secret, and if she willingly told anyone that she was the voice to Chloé, she'd find herself paying countless fines and lawyers would be involved.

Her mother swept her into a hug, not asking her plans for the future or badgering her to get a job as others expected her to, and Marinette sobbed into the embrace, free and allowed to be herself in her home. Although her mouth was forcefully closed, to stop any words spilling out, her mother rubbed soothing circles into her back with her hands, humming underneath her breath and comforting her as she'd done for all of Marinette's life. The warmth and affection made her cry until her eyes were sore, but there was a happy smile on her lips as her mother brushed her tears away.

Papillon was bluntly honest, even more so than Chloé.

“You have only one talent that's at a sufficient level to achieve success,” they stated, in that same voice that could've been talking about the weather or any other boring topic. “Considering that you've been blissfully ignorant to ambition in the past, Miss Cheng, it is my duty to make your life better.”

It was after the first week that she'd grown used to the presence. Even though they had advised that she respond with her thoughts, doing that was equally confusing and exhausting, as she wasn't certain which would be directed at them. It didn't help that Papillon pointed out that they could hear and read all her thoughts, so it was after the first two days that she decided to still address the _Kwami_ with her voice, as it would be easier for her that way.

“How you talk to me is none of my concern, child.”

And there it was again, the nickname that had been slapped onto her—she was Miss Cheng or child, and she didn't know whether that was because they were programmed to be a bored-sounding adult, or if it was the default personality that hadn't been changed. Marinette had asked about the other _Kwamis_ that were created, but from what Papillon knew, their version was the only that they knew the name of.

There was no answer if there were more Papillons in the world. She sincerely hoped not, and was actually surprised when she didn't flinch from a sudden burst of pain.

“Aren't you—you're not angry at me?” she asked softly.

As usual, there was no need to think about an answer. The _Kwami_ drawled in their bored tone, “I am incapable of emotions, Miss Cheng. I am programmed to discipline your disobedience and help you achieve a happy life.”

“I _had_ a happy life,” she grumbled stubbornly, fiddling with the material of her dress.

When there was no reply to her petty comment, she started to wonder what they had planned for her life. Marinette had been uncertain about the contract, unsure whether to continue, and now that she was free from that and under the thumb of a powerful force that wanted her to succeed, she had no idea what that could mean. Papillon had acknowledged her singing, but the computer only had access to her body, and they certainly wouldn't infect another and take control to forcefully make her reach a successful status.

As it turned out, the first stage of the _Kwami's_ master plan was to apply to different record companies, agencies, and send videos of her singing online, too. It was much the same to back what she did when she'd been scouted to be Chloé's voice except there was a glaring difference—she was older, body filled out and considered more attractive than she had once been, but the age was working against her. Singers tended to be found when they were bright-eyed teenagers, as she had once been, but with the roundness gone from her cheeks and the pitiful résumé, it showed that she'd done nothing in her life.

The rejections came flooding in, and she was happy that Papillon was incapable of emotions. If they had been able to be mad, she dreaded the thought of all the pain she could be put through because of their anger, and sometimes the thought of the aching limbs and bleeding nose kept her up at night.

Her contact with Chloé had been cut off when she'd stopped working for her. They'd sent messages to each other to meet up and spend time together for the past years, travelling together with the blonde's bodyguard and sometimes being snapped in pictures together, but it seemed that their friendship had broken as soon as she'd signed her name on the line that promised to keep their relationship a secret.

Chloé had been her first close friend since puberty. The blonde-haired girl with her witty comments and smiles had led the way to her befriending the others working for the company, to making silly jokes with the bodyguard that liked to give her treats, and all of that had _ended_.

The kind neighbours had been swapped for a better road, windows that kept the warmth in their home, and _heating_ ; it had seemed so important at the time, something to gush and savour. Yet as she sat there in the living room, a mug in her hands as the _Kwami_ stayed quiet in her mind due to the rejection letter on the coffee-table, she had never felt more alone.

Her mother's presence grounded her, reassuring her that love and affection was still possible with the intruder in her mind, but she had no one else. There were no friends outside of the ones that knew Chloé, and that knew that Marinette had ceased contact and signed the contract, therefore should not be involved with them to preserve the secret.

Papillon didn't mock her loneliness, but that didn't mean they comforted her.

Along the way, Marinette learned to not fear the _Kwami_. She embraced the bland comments and criticism, listening to the demands without question as she didn't want to feel the blinding pain, and she responded to the emotionless remarks with humour and sarcasm, claiming that along the way if anything human grew on them, she wished it to be humour.

Somehow, she found herself thinking that Papillon was the stern father figure that she'd never had—gosh, she'd never even known her father, and her mother's boyfriends and been brief and far between each other, so the masculine-sounding voice in her head (that she knew not to be gendered, but couldn't help herself from thinking so), became associated with a nagging parent as time passed.

It was after her twenty-first birthday that a letter came that turned out not to be a rejection.

Marinette stared wide-eyed at the contents, the paperwork that was within, in disbelief that she'd been accepted at all. It was for a television show where singers auditioned live, tried to gain a spot on each of the judges teams, and then sang live weekly so the audience could vote who they wanted to be successful.

She didn't watch television shows like that often. Marinette disliked the sob stories that were used to sway the public opinion, along with the magazines that picked up on the trend and tried to create scandals along the way, but it was the first affirmative answer that she'd received. She'd e-mailed a video of her singing, along with her details and along with a picture that showed her full body.

Well, being invited to audition was a start. There would be a crowd behind the judges, and all she had to do was select a song, send it back with the filled out paperwork, and hope it would be accepted. There was a warning that security would check her to make sure she carried no weapons on the specified date—three months away, it was close—and that she should wear appropriate clothing.

“Well done, child,” Papillon whispered in her head.

She found herself smiling at the words.

-x-

The date came sooner than expected.

Papillon prepared her by searching through the songs that she knew, and then decided to pick the one that she'd once sang to her mother in the kitchen, the one that had made her ever-loving mother burst into tears when she'd hit the high notes. It was a requirement to have a story behind a song choice, apparently, though she felt that mentioning that such an intimate moment would be inappropriate.

Marinette wanted to keep it between her and her mother, but with the _Kwami_ asserting their control, the paperwork was sent off, and she received an e-mail stating that the song had been accepted—along with her backup one—and then she found herself singing it almost daily. Much like when she'd worked for Chloé, she took care of her throat, had the vitamins that she took in the morning, and avoided smoking and drinking alcohol (it wasn't as though she had friends to go out with).

Her lonely existence meant she was nervous when the day came. Marinette went through her wardrobe at dawn, listening to the input of her _Kwami_ on what not to wear, and ended up in a white dress that reached just above her knees that had a black ribbon underneath a collar. It was simple, smart, and apparently made her blue-coloured eyes stand out. Her hair had grown out to be just above her breasts, a length that she was proud of, and she placed some of the strands by her crown in a ribbon to match her outfit.

The make-up was minimal due to Papillon's insistence, and her mother fondly kissed her cheek before Marinette climbed out of the car after checking herself in the mirror.

Although the dress had pockets, the _Kwami_ stopped her from nervously twisting her hands in the material of her dress, making her appear confident and strong as she walked to the entrance and joined the queue in the rising sun. She waited outside for thirty minutes before she was checked by security and allowed inside, stepping in front of the front desk so they could confirm her identity.

A sticker with her number on it was placed just above her breasts, standing out on the dress.

She took a seat in the large waiting room, an isolated one by the window to avoid others, all the while Papillon whispered words of encouragement in her head. The room began to fill out as time passed, and as the chairs ran out, numbers started to be called. The auditions were predicted to last for hours on end, and she'd brought along a small purse filled with money to buy food at some point; she didn't think she could eat before singing, though, as her stomach was twisting from the nerves.

“You're an award winning singer, Miss Cheng,” they soothed her, trying to quell the nervousness. Papillon could stop her hands from shaking, make her not bounce her knee or touch her elbow in self-consciousness, but they couldn't stop her worrying thoughts. There was only so much a supercomputer could do, after all. “If the unthinkable happens and they're idiotic enough to fail you, some will notice the quality of your voice—they will know who you supposedly sound like.”

Those words made her worry more. The contract she'd signed hadn't stated that she couldn't audition and try and create a career with her own name, just as long as she didn't try and join the same company as Chloé (who had been on a hiatus for six months, enjoying herself without the busy schedule).

Cameras roamed through the hall with the show's commentator walking through, interviewing waiting contestants and trying to learn about the interesting-looking ones stories. Marinette stayed glued to her seat, trying to avoid detection despite her straight back and good posture—the confidence didn't reflect her actual self, and she desperately wished to avoid the interview at all costs.

Her number was called after two hours of waiting. She looked up blankly to see one of the screens that was scattered across the room, standing up and smoothing out the material of her dress before she started to walk. Papillon took care of her appearance, making her appear confident and mature, not the fumbling twenty-one-year-old she felt like.

She took in a deep breath, not pausing in her walk, as she pushed open the heavy door to the audition room. The cheers from the crowd greeted her as she took in the large room, taking note that the lights were angled in a way for her to not see the audience, but still know that they were there from the faint outlines. There was a podium for the three judges to sit upon with a desk in front of them, a few metres away from the end of the large stage, and Marinette walked to the allocated spot that was marked on the floor with tape.

The spotlights settled on her, and one of the staff walked out to give her a microphone.

She looked at the three judges, knowing stories of them from her time spent at Chloé's company. There was Penny Rolling, a dark-haired woman who was a higher-up in a successful record company. Caline Bustier, a woman with pale skin and red hair, who had been hailed as an inspirational singer for over a decade. And there was Armand D'Argencourt, a stern-faced man who had his dark hair parted down the middle, a marvelled producer that had helped some of the most famous singers of the past decade become popular.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Caline greeted her, a wide and practised smile on her lips. “And who are you?”

A nervous wreck on the inside, that was who she was. Marinette wanted to shift on the spot, to blink rapidly from the sudden light that was focused on her, but all she could offer with a lopsided smile as she raised the microphone to her lips and announced in a steady voice, “Marinette Cheng, ma'am.”

There was a small chorus of laughter from her politeness, and although she didn't twitch from the embarrassment, her cheeks did feel warm.

“Wonderful to meet you, Marinette—we can call you Marinette, right?” Penny addressed her, a tiny smile on her red-stained lips that surely had the cameras zooming in. “How old are you, darling?”

Papillon was quiet, focused on making sure she didn't trip over or lose grip on the microphone. Over their time together, they had noticed her tendency to have loose hands when she was nervous or anxious about anything, and tripped when noises scared her in the light (from the weather, or the tires from a car sounding too loud).

“I'm twenty-one, ma'am,” Marinette answered, one hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear as the _Kwami_ had suggested, blinking slowly as she looked across to the judges.

A few cheers sounded from the audience from her show. Normally, she would've blushed profusely and looked away from the embarrassment of trying to use her looks to her advantage, but Papillon was there, making her appear confident as she stood up straight, her dress a nice fit so it hugged the curves of her waist before flaring out for the rest.

Armand shuffled the papers on the desk, pen firmly in his hand as he looked at her with a blank expression. “And why are you here, Marinette?”

She didn't know how to answer that properly. Marinette made a show of sweeping her eyes across the darkened audience, teeth lightly biting into her lower lip as she pondered her answer. The _Kwami_ had suggested beforehand that she study successful auditions to know what to do, but at that moment all she could remember was blankness, the most cliché and awful answers popping into mind.

It was with that inability to recall that she blurted, “I need the money.”

Caline, Penny, and a majority of the audience laughed at her deadpan answer, assuming her to be joking. She wanted to slap a hand over her mouth from the blunder, to swallow audibly and try and ramble her way out of it, but her arms were locked in their position of holding onto the microphone in an endearing way with both of her hands.

Papillon drawled in her head, “It is fine, child. We can work with this image for you.”

She didn't know how to feel about that.

Armand, with his lips pressed into a neutral line, gestured for her to start singing. The lights were dimmed slightly around her, the staff alerted to the performance starting, and she adjusted her footing slightly so she was steady, taking in an allowed breath to try and relax herself. Her expression didn't betray her nerves; to them she assumed she was a blank-faced beauty in a pretty dress, one that had tried to sway the audience with blunt humour, and that it was terrifying to think that her mother—that maybe even _Chloé—_ would see the persona that she'd summoned.

The starting notes of the song came on, and Papillon allowed her to sway slightly on the spot to the rhythm, closing her eyes and humming underneath her breath as the sweet-sounding music filled the stage. The microphone didn't feel unnatural to her; when she'd been Chloé's voice live at concerts, she held a microphone in her hand so the breathing could be heard, the rustling of her clothing as she moved around and made herself match Chloé's enthusiasm.

It was just her on the other side of the stage. Marinette was visible to others; they would see _her_ , and not the bright-eyed blonde that opened her mouth to allow Marinette's voice to spill from her, and with that thought her heart was beating fast in anticipation.

She didn't flinch from the cheers from the crowd as she hit the first high note perfectly, nor the chorus of gasps as she continued to hold another for seconds on end, eyes shut in concentration as she raised a hand to match the sound of her voice. Marinette bounced around the allocated area on the stage, a bright and honest smile to her lips as she saw the darkened audience, the bright smiles and small reflections in spectacles from individuals—they were there, they could hear her, and that was thrilling.

Her chest was heaving by the end.

Marinette placed a hand onto her beating heart, feeling the sticker that was on her chest, and bowed to the audience in a silent show of her thanks as the cheers started to sound, the deafening noise of endless clapping, and she watched in awe as she stood up straight once more to see that some were standing, showing their enthusiasm and appreciation in the best way they could.

All three of the judges gave her their approval. Marinette bowed once more, the way she showed respect to her relatives and mother when they were feeling sentimental, and walked off the stage with the same steady steps and straightened shoulders. Cheers still sounded as she disappeared, and the pleased smile on her face didn't disappear when she returned the microphone to a member or staff, or when she walked through another set of doors to start to make her way to the lobby.

It didn't falter due to Papillon when she caught sight of the announcer, but it was close.

Nadja Chamack, dressed in a blouse and casual jeans, was the commentator that introduced the show, interviewed some of the crowd and contestants, allowing the viewers to see those auditioning in a personal light. As the polite smile was directed at her and she was beckoned by a pale hand, Marinette gulped, knowing that there wasn't a way to get out of it. Nadja was positioned there to talk to those that wanted to exit, to question about the verdict of the judges.

And because of the positive response, the first sentence from the brown-eyed woman was, “How does it feel to have three stamps of approval?”

She blinked. “Like I'm a child again.”

A polite laugh escaped the older woman, one that was practised and perfected for her job. She was forced to be positive and happy with everyone, to cheer up and console those that failed, and share the enthusiasm with the ones that had won the first round. Marinette wanted nothing more than the shy away from the camera and run through the doors, to message her mother so they could return home after the long drive and be alone.

And yet she was there, a lopsided smile appearing on her lips. Papillon had insisted smiling was a skill she needed to practice in the mirror, which had caused her to snort and laugh until she was physically forced to stand still in the bathroom for thirty minutes until she complied.

Marinette answered the standard questions with an air of confidence, made eye contact with the cameras and offered the sweet smile that she'd practised until her feet hurt, and tucked her hair behind her ear in the innocent-looking way that Papillon had encouraged. She had taken inspiration from Chloé's persona that she let the public see, minus the obligatory sexual appeal and low-cut clothing.

Her mother had happy tears in her eyes when they embraced in the parking lot, whispering words of how brave and strong she was.

-x-

As there had been hundreds of contestants, meaning auditions happened over the space of a week and the television show would air for a whole week after a few more had passed, it took almost a month for the next part to happen. Marinette had been informed by e-mail, had to fill in more paperwork to ensure that she wasn't revealing her part in the television show so the contestants wouldn't be ruined, and had to answer countless calls to arrange everything.

The second set took place in a large hall once more, but there was no audience that time. It was a place for the judges to choose from a set of six of them at a time—groups counting as one—and the opportunity for those that had talent to shine the brightest. Papillon was insistent that she would be fine, that the choices in song that had been sent to her two weeks before fit her voice in a pleasing way, but that didn't stop her from folding the laundry twice to keep her hands busy.

The first part of the show wasn't going to air until the second auditions had happened. It would give those that passed time to move into the selected dorms and sort themselves out, everything that Marinette was hoping for. There was no one yet that had noticed the familiar quality to her voice, and the judges compliments hadn't hinted that they'd realised that she was the one behind the constant number one songs for the last three years.

Marinette felt like she was a secret powerhouse, hidden behind the sweet smile and modest clothing. She had experience that the others didn't, knowledge that she had to keep to herself, and although she felt guilty for that, she still felt the need to prove herself. Chloé was the famous one, Marinette Cheng wasn't a known name at all—even her neighbours were uncertain of whether she lived on their street when she walked down the road with groceries in her arms.

Papillon helped her decide on her outfit again. It was handy having a supercomputer that was able to research fashion trends and easily point out articles of clothing that would work well with her dark hair and bright eyes, even if they were a tad bossy and controlling.

“You will tell your mother to leave early, child. We will not be delayed due to the traffic accident on the designated route; I will navigate you instead,” the _Kwami_ ushered her along in the monotone voice, no sense of urgency or warmth.

She rolled her eyes as she buttoned up the pleated skirt. “A please wouldn't hurt, Papillon.”

“Manners are not required for machines.” If she didn't know any better, she would've thought it was a joke.

Her shirt had a black collar and short sleeves that time, no ribbon to tie, and the rest was soft-looking and red. According to her _Kwami_ , it contrasted well to her skin and would draw attention to her, and with that in mind she tied her hair up with a scarlet-colored ribbon to show the skin of her neck, leaving her bangs and a few tendrils that reached her chin down to frame her face.

“You could be a fashion designer if you weren't trying to take over the world through me,” she mused, pocketing her cell phone and other small belongings that she could get away with, knowing that they wouldn't cause her skirt to bulge unattractively. “Do you think your plans will ever change?”

The cold drawl was the same as ever as they replied, “My primary function is to achieve your happiness.”

Marinette made a noise of acknowledgement as she looked in the mirror one last time. “Okay, and what's your secondary?”

“To cause you pain.”

She might've choked on her laughter.

As promised, Papillon gave directions as her mother drove, and Marinette covered it up by scrolling through her cell phone, pretending that she was following a map on her screen. They arrived at the destination early, as intended, and Marinette promised to call her mother when the auditions were over, a genuine smile on her lips as she exited the vehicle.

Papillon kept her arms steady by her side as she walked, not allowing her to wrap them around herself for warmth from the cold air, as she moved confidently towards the door. She signed in at the front desk again, showing the identification from her wallet to prove that she was who she said she was, and then was directed into one of the waiting rooms. The sticker with her first name was stuck above her breast again. When she entered with a cool expression—the _Kwami_ had frozen her features, making it feel stiff and unnatural to her, but others wouldn't be able to tell—she was greeted by the faces of two other females, and two males.

As almost an hour passed, the rest of those assigned to her room trickled in. There was six of them altogether, and she quickly deduced from the chatter from the others that there was sixty of them that had passed to that stage of the competition. The judges would pick two of them inside the room to advance after hearing them sing—with groups still counting as one—adding up to a total of twenty, before they selected selected four more to join them.

And then they would be halved the following day, made to pair up and compete against each other.

Marinette obediently accepted the microphone that a red-haired member of staff gave her, returning the polite smile, and was the second in line across the stage. There were two groups in her queue, in first and sixth place, while the other three were soloists, like her.

The judges were there at their combined desk, leaning back on chairs and conversing with each other, while the cameras were angled at the contestants that had just lined up. Marinette relaxed her shoulders, the steady grip on the microphone with two hands the one that she'd had before, and she was sure she was the picture of cool confidence, not a shaking mess like the brown-haired male beside her.

Their task was to sing a forty second snippet of a choice between two songs, the same that had been assigned to the rest of the group. From what she'd heard from the other contestants while waiting, each group of six had been given different songs, though they all had the varying notes and control to see whether they were capable singers.

Marinette wasn't nervous because of her ability; she was nervous because she was second, knowing that if down the line a good singer appeared, they might overshadow her despite her professional training. To them—the judges, her fellow contestants, and the cameras that looked at her fleetingly—she was an unemployed female who'd had no vocal training, not even a spot in her school's choir (because there hadn't been one).

Armand greeted them curtly, and then the spotlights were focused on the first singer, the group, cameras moving in front of the stage to get the best shot.

Their voices couldn't reach the high notes.

When her name was called and the light was directed her way, Marinette bowed silently in greeting before she raised the microphone to her mouth, eyes deliberately downcast as her voice as soft at the beginning. There was no murmuring of the crowd as she perfectly hit the note, nor when her voice caressed the syllables of the quiet part, and although her heart was beating madly and she felt stiff and awkward, Papillon whispered their approval when she lowered her hand.

Another soloist had trouble with singing quietly before belting out the climax of the chorus, which caused the singer to wince and realise their mistake themselves, and the final group only had one member that had trouble making their portion sound attractive.

Rather than call the six of them back at a later time, the judges discussed the results themselves. They pushed their chairs closer, compared the notes on their desks, while the cameras roamed with flickering shots between the contestants and the trio that were muttering, microphones turned off so they couldn't be overheard.

Marinette kept her chin raised, the blank and aloof expression on despite how her heart was hammering, and she wondered how Chloé had managed to keep herself under control for all those years. Their first concert together had had the blonde-haired female almost hyperventilating backstage before she went on, and all the cheering crowd could see was her smiling face when she stepped on, not noticing how pale she had been.

She bowed when her name was called. The other to make it through was a male soloist.

They were escorted off the stage after a few complimentary comments—Armand said that she needed to work on her voice to fit the newest popular songs, which made her almost burst out laughing—and then separated, with those that were rejected sent into a different room, awaiting to see whether they would be selected to be the backups.

Marinette sat down in a corner after selecting a bottle of water, sipping the liquid and feeling the uncomfortable feeling of hunger in her stomach. There was a table of food beside the water, a small selection of dishes to choose from, but most of the contestants were opting not to eat from what she suspected to be nerves, much like her.

Slowly, more of the passing contestants walking in, two at a time. Groups joined them, huddling together in chairs that they'd pushed into odd shapes, while the soloists tended to keep to themselves, but some had taken to chattering away with whoever was close, trying to befriend them.

Knowing how awkward she could be when she was nervous, and that Papillon wanted her to stay aloof and not make connections at that moment in time when half would be eliminated the following day, Marinette kept to herself, crossing her legs in her chair. She rested her chin on her palm, elbow on her knee, as she looked at the newcomers as they shuffled inside.

There was laughter and happy conversations as time continued, and she idly fiddled with her cell phone, sending a few messages to her mother. They were restricted, no free internet given, and it was within the documents that they'd signed that they wouldn't post anything online that would reveal their position in the show.

The large room filled up, and when she was trying to count heads to see whether there were twenty of them, trying hard to figure out which crowds counted as a group, the red-head that had handed her the microphone in the beginning entered through the open door, tapping her knuckles against the wood to try and catch their attention.

It was drowned out, though, and she ran a frustrated tanned hand through her curly red-coloured hair, visibly irritated by the lack of attention her way.

Reading her thoughts, Papillon uttered their encouragement with the drawl of, “Go on, then, child.”

And, well, if her father figure agreed with the idea, then she saw no reason to question it. Marinette stood up, pocketing her cell phone as she did so, and raised her hand to her mouth while trying to make eye contact with the member of staff.

She moved her fingers into a specific position on her lips and blew, resulting in a loud high-pitched whistle that seemed to echo within the room. Stares were directed at her instantly, the chatter dying down from the sudden interruption, and all she did was remove her hand with a blank expression and allow her eyes to flicker around to see the surprised faces before she gestured towards the red-head.

The member of staff grinned, mouthing her thanks before she cleared her throat. “Right, hi, guys. I'm Alya, and if I call your name, you're going to come with me, okay?”

There was a mutter of chatter, a clear confirmation, and then Alya continued on to read out a list of eleven individuals, no explanation given.

Her name had been called.

Marinette smoothed out the material of her shirt, chin held high as she navigated her way through the group, the first to reach the door and walk alongside the red-head that was leading them through the hallway.

Alya turned to her halfway through to say, “Thanks again, by the way. It was pretty cool of you to do that.”

“I would've used the sound of an air horn if I had it on my phone,” she replied, a small smile on her lips that turned genuine as the other female grinned right back at her.

They were brought back to the stage, cameras focusing on them despite the fact that the situation hadn't been explained to them, and Marinette was sure she had an air of confidence as she took a spot on the fair side on the stage. She didn't look at the other ten beside her, though she started to have her suspicions due to the fact that they were all soloists. There were no groups called in with them, and the silence was only filled by the sound of one of the other's tapping foot.

Penny called their attention with a raised hand. “Hello again, everyone. I'm sure you're wondering what you're doing here.”

“What she means to say is that we're sorry to call you back. There's a lot of talent this year, and we've decided to embrace that by altering a few things,” Caline corrected with a smile that was supposed to be reassuring.

Her stomach clenched uncomfortably from a mixture of nerves and hunger. The worry of them eliminating her was there, that the eleven of them had been called to cause humiliation despite the fact that they'd been told that they'd passed beforehand. Papillon was quiet, absent from her mind and only there keeping her face inexpressive, meaning all she had filling her head was her worries and the sound of her anxious pulse.

“I see you're first, Marinette,” Penny remarked, causing the quiet of the room to seem tense. “Yes, Marinette, you're quite talented, aren't you?”

Papillon whispered, “It's rhetorical.”

She could've figured that out for herself, but the reassurance was helpful.

“You're quite the little spitfire, we've all agreed on that,” the dark-haired female judge continued, hand fiddling with the pen as she referred to her notes. “I'm afraid, though, darling, that there's something missing with you.”

The actual success of her voice was missing, that was what. Marinette's cheeks coloured from indignation and embarrassment, unwilling that she was really going to be eliminated when she was clearly talented and attractive, and then she realised that Papillon was uttering his monotone outrage in her head, stating that they were plebeians, clearly unable to tell when someone worthy was standing before them.

For a supercomputer that was incapable of emotions, they sounded quite protective—of her success, not her.

Penny's voice brought her back to the present, even though she was sure only her eyes had flickered away from the internal mortification. “Fret not, we've figured out a solution for that, if you're willing.”

Self-doubted bubbled within her, harshly reminding her that once she hadn't been as attractive as Chloé, and that was the very reason that she hadn't been considered a soloist herself. She'd been the voice to a pretty face, and if they were going to do something like that _here_ , even if it was to match her up with someone attractive, she didn't know how to restrain her anger from the treatment.

Marinette Cheng never seemed to be enough. She knew she had the talent—countless people had told her, professional coaches had, too—and she'd grown into her adult body, no longer the little girl with ratty hair and badly fitting clothes, but that still wasn't _enough_.

Armand pitched in, “Adrien Agreste, please step forward.”

Looking to the side to see who would move, Marinette caught sight of a male walking, hands not tucked into his pockets like some of the others. He turned to look at her with a polite smile, raising a hand to wave, and that was what she saw the indents on his cheeks and she froze in horror.

He had green eyes.

The chances were small, absolutely abysmal, but when she saw the blond hair that flicked out at the end—the same way it had done in school, especially when he ran his fingers through it—there was no denying that she knew the male that had been called forward. There was no recognition in his face, though, and that joined her festering anger that was well hidden by her _Kwami._

To Adrien she was a blank-faced female that he had never seen before; she wasn't the short-haired school-mate that he'd mistaken for a boy and bluntly rejected in the middle of the dining hall years ago.

Papillon's voice pitched in to demand, “Calm down, Miss Cheng.”

Her heart was beating fast, face stiff so it wouldn't crumple from sadness and embarrassment, because from all the times she'd imagined meeting him again, it had never been with cameras pointing their way, ready to record her humiliation and a trip to the past. The judges might've been gesturing to the two of them, or writing on their pieces of paper, but all she could do was stare blankly at the male on the opposite side of the stage—far enough not to be within reaching distance—and wonder how well Papillon would be able to smother her tears.

Caline cleared her throat. “We chose you two because we think your voices would work together beautifully. Are you willing to join together as a group?”

With _him?_

The dark-haired female didn't let him get a word in as she blurted out immediately, “Absolutely not.”

Adrien looked taken aback and confused, furrowing his eyebrows as his hand lifted up to touch the hairs at the nape of her neck, and goodness, she still recognised _that—_

A chuckle came from Penny, and Marinette ripped her eyes away from him to stare at the judges. “Yes, we thought this might happen, but it's okay. It was worth a try.”

Her eyes felt itchy.

“What my colleagues are trying to say is, the eleven of you are either to join a group or be eliminated,” Armand stated bluntly. Before there could be a chorus of rejections, he raised a hand to indicate them to be silent. “We've already selected your groups, including our reserve picks from the rejected, so, please, cooperate and go to the part of the stage I tell you to. The reserves will be entering soon.”

Caline smiled as she looked at the two of them that had been called out. “Marinette and Adrien, you are not being rejected due to your refusal to work together. We already arranged for you two to join other groups if you were unwilling to bond.”

She didn't look to the side, but she was sure that he was still touching his hair in that self-conscious way that had once made her smile when she was staring out of the classroom window. Marinette's stomach felt heavy and tight, and the only sign of her emotional distress was her blinking.

As Marinette was on the far side of the stage, it was decided that one of her new group members would go to her. She watched as Juleka Couffaine, a tall female with black hair, came walking her way, clearly shy and anxious as she fiddled with her hands in front of her.

The other groups were arranged, the lot of them shuffling around the stage to try and stand together in distinct places, and her eyes flickered to the side of the stage to see where the four reserves would walk on. She kept her away from the cameras, tried to ignore that her new partner was tall so Marinette came up to her breasts (it reminded her of Chloé, actually), and noticed with a glance that Adrien was in the same predicament with his new member, a broad-shouldered male with a blank expression and dark hair.

Anger and indignation swirled in her from the past, and undeniable want to prove herself; to show that she was worthy of someone's time, that they shouldn't write her off because she was missing something—be it gender or something on the stage—because they didn't know who they were dealing with. She was the voice of Chloé, had heard her voice on the radio countless times, and she was an adult that wouldn't cower from being overlooked any more.

If she couldn't win, she just wanted to beat _him_.

Two of the rejected joined her group. Lila Rossi, a tanned female with brown hair, and slightly taller than Marinette, and Aurore Beauréal, a female who was a centimetre or two shorter than Juleka with golden-coloured hair.

Two also joined Adrien's. Marinette kept quiet as everyone stayed lined up together, waiting for the judges to comment on their newly formed sections, and all she could do was stare at him, noting that he'd matured well, even if he still had that obvious confused expression on his face.

He caught her staring, though. Adrien's green eyes caught sight of her, and they widened for a moment before he tilted his head slightly to the side, a silent question of enquiring her reasoning.

Marinette narrowed her eyes at him before she looked away, surprised that Papillon had allowed her to do so.

The judges sent them off together, and Marinette stood between the three females that she'd been sorted with utterly lost on how to interact with them. They had to sing together the following day to try and win their spot in the competition—twenty-four being narrowed down to twelve, and she knew that some soloists had been saved from elimination by being the reserve four that didn't get added to groups—and she didn't know a thing about them.

There was no time to rehearse together that day; the sun was starting to disappear, and she had a few hours drive with her mother on the way back. They hadn't booked a nearby hotel due to the fact Marinette hadn't thought it was necessary, which she was utterly regretting at that moment.

“Arrive early and force them to rehearse with you,” her _Kwami_ demanded, as it was never a suggestion. “Since you were too busy giving in to your petty feelings of dislike, Miss Cheng, the song you four will be singing tomorrow will be half of today's.”

At least they all knew it, then. The judges had forced unnecessary strain on them, making it so they had to work together in a limited time, but she assumed that was to add to the drama for the show to attract viewers. She was glad that Papillon didn't allow her to appear as panicky as she actually felt.

They did arrange to meet the following day without complaints. The trio were ambitious, especially the two that had been originally eliminated, and when Marinette told her mother the change of events as she hiccuped and spoke through her tears, her mother suggested that, maybe, a extra presence on the stage would be a comfort for her, rather than a hindrance.

Papillon commanded her to wear a knee-length dress with a visible short-sleeved t-shirt underneath, sticking to the same style as her other outfits. She placed her belongings in a small backpack, holding onto the straps in the car to try and calm her nerves.

The rest of her group were waiting outside in various styles of clothing. Aurore and Lila seemed to prefer the same style that Chloé wore in public, with tight clothing that accentuated their figures as they were comfortable with their bodies that way, while Juleka had her dark hair pulled into a ponytail as she wore ripped jeans and a leather jacket.

When the four of them stood together, only Aurore and Lila seemed to belong together. They offered awkward smiles and polite words as they checked in at the front desk, overjoyed that they were given a room to practice in—all of the groups that had been assigned the previous day were, complete with installed cameras to catch their every move, as it was surely a segment that would be shown in the upcoming weeks.

They had to have been good singers to make it through auditions, of course. It was just that they were on different levels, voices all different and difficult to mesh together.

Marinette was able to hit the highest notes—causing wide eyes as she displayed her ability as they warmed up and showed each other their abilities—and hold them stably, her voice not cracking as she ran out of breath. It was clear that she was considered the best there quickly, and there was no looks of jealousy as she was assigned the hardest parts of the song to sing (Juleka had printed out the lyrics, highlighting each part with different colours to represent them—Marinette was red).

Juleka was talented at harmonising and low notes, a husky quality to her voice that was attractive, even though she couldn't belt or have much presence on her own. She wasn't afraid to admit that or try and push to have herself do the hardest parts, instead volunteering to combine her voice with others when they seemed shaky or unsure.

Aurore and Lila wanted to prove themselves, though, considering that they had originally been rejected. The two females butted heads at first before Marinette blandly interrupted that they didn't have time for their petty dislike—taking the words from Papillon—and then they'd calm down with the promise to revisit their argument when their group passed.

As it turned out, Lila had a strong voice, but when it came to fast parts, her pronunciation faltered from the pressure. Aurore was found to have the second best voice—to the displeasure of Lila—and was able to hit the second highest notes without causing her voice to break.

Their plan was messy and uncoordinated, but it was the best they could do with the time given. When they were ushered out by a member of staff, stating they had to gather in another room with the other contestants, Marinette stood up swiftly placed her bag on her back, confident at her ability to remember her selected parts.

She did have a supercomputer in her head to tell her when it was coming up, after all.

As they were a group, they were paired together with another that was filled with two females and one male. The song had been organised so they'd split verses between the two groups, allowing the different singers that they'd selected themselves to showcase their skills side-by-side.

Alya handed out the microphones with no polite smile, instead she had a frustrated expression as she juggled the equipment, tying to pass them out without dropping them. As much as Marinette wanted to try and help, she was rooted to the spot on the stage, waiting for the spotlights to focus on them as the judges trickled in.

The song started out with the other group's first singer which transitioned into Aurore's strong voice, and the first mistake was Lila forgetting which line was hers. The brunette visibly jumped when she realised, stepping forward and starting halfway through a sentence, visibly upset with her blunder. Juleka was there supporting her, softly caressing the syllables with her unique voice.

Marinette performed her parts with finesse, adding extended high notes when Aurore sang, overshadowing the strongest singer on the other side of the stage.

Even though Lila had almost cost them their part in the show, they passed. The brunette sobbed and wrapped her arms around a bewildered Aurore when the judges gave their approval, and Marinette was standing there, hand holding the microphone dropping to her side as she wondered what it was that she was missing.

It wasn't her voice, she knew that. Was it her stage presence? Her mother had commented that it might be good for her to have others there to support her, but as she glanced to the side at the odd trio of girls that she'd been put with, she couldn't see them getting along, let alone making their way through the live shows when there was no chemistry between them. Marinette felt awkward and unsure of how to be with them; it had always been just her, matching her voice to Chloé's lips and movements.

She wasn't alone any more, and she didn't know how to deal with that.

-x-

“Marinette, come on! You know I'm not fit to be in the kitchen without your assistance,” Lila exclaimed loudly, hands coming to grip onto Marinette's duvet to pull it off. “And I want pancakes—no, I _need_ them.”

Two days after the last elimination, Marinette had packed her bags with the help of her mother, and was dropped off at the allocated dormitory. It was a large building that was split into two sections; one side was for males, the other for females, and therefore she found herself sharing a room with Lila, of all people. The idea was for those in groups to stick close to each other, even though there was only two beds in a room (and a bathroom attached), so some soloists had paired up with another, since single rooms weren't allowed.

There were no cameras in the bedrooms or bathrooms, thankfully, but there was a large kitchen that the girls all had to share, complete with beady little cameras dotted around the room to capture them bonding. She assumed that the layout of the building was mirrored for the other side, too.

Aurore and Lila's rivalry had ended as soon as they'd passed, but it was the amount of luggage that the two of them brought along that caused Marinette to share a room with the brunette. It was awkward at first, both of them unsure on how to interact with each other, but Papillon was fine with her talking freely as long as she didn't sob uncontrollably so the other female would think she was a pushover, or reveal her secrets.

So, it was within the safety of the bedroom that she was free to be herself, while the _Kwami_ made sure to keep her posture stiff and straight when she ventured outside.

They weren't allowed to watch television, had limited access to the news, had their cell phones confiscated so they could only answer calls on the phone in the kitchen that only had calls directed to it, no numbers to input their own. The internet was monitored, and they were warned beforehand that if they posted on social media or released information to any websites that they would be kicked off the show immediately. The idea was for them to watch and listen to songs on the devices only, to read the books provided for entertainment, but they were allowed to leave the grounds if cleared by security and had approval of the location (for meeting family, those that had been cleared and identified).

There was a time period of a few days to allow everyone to move in and select rooms, and since Marinette and her group were some of the first, they had free reign in the kitchen. As long as it wasn't too demanding, they were allowed to write down their wanted groceries on a list—that she was sure would be shown on television if anything funny was written on it—so when they'd arrived and saw that the cupboards were stocked but they were tired from the drive, they pitched together to order food.

On the other side of the kitchen, past the countertops with stools and little tables that were set up, was a large television—that only had past television shows, no live channels to stop them seeing the news—surrounded by sofas, armchairs and beanbags. The four of them sat together, eating their food and ignoring the cameras that were sure to be pointed their way, and tried to get to know each other while the other contestants were absent.

They weren't that bad, honestly. Marinette found out that Lila had no skill in cooking, but liked to input her opinions and advice when someone else was at the stove, so it was decided that it would be a good bonding experience for at least two of them to participate in meal preparation over the course of their time together.

As contestants trickled in, awkwardly introducing themselves and claiming rooms, Marinette stayed awkward and unsure of herself, but it was Lila that she grew closest to. They weren't due for rehearsals until the next week to allow everyone to settle in, so that meant that everyone was left to their own devices in the dorms, unable to leave to visit family just yet.

Lila struck up conversations when they were in their bedroom together, placed an arm around Marinette's shoulder when they were in the kitchen or lounging around watching old episodes of a television show, and none of it felt forced. Despite her initial bad impression, the brunette female seemed to be a kind person, other than her fault of being quick to anger. Lila apologised to Aurore over breakfast, and the other waved it off with a dismissive hand gesture, saying it was in the past, that they should move forward and be friends.

Apparently, that meant barging into Marinette's room in the early morning, dragging a sleepy-looking Juleka along so they could talk in private.

When the following week came, after the first auditions had been shown on television, they made their way to the studio with genuine smiles and laughter, having warmed up to each other in their time alone. Marinette had heard the other contestants bonding, too, when she'd kept to herself in the kitchen, nursing a warm mug close to her chest for comfort.

Although the two dorms weren't allowed to visit each other—to stop sexual activities from being caught on camera—there was another large living and kitchen room, complete with the restricted television, plethora of chairs, and cameras at every angle, making it so those in groups with the other gender could eat and spend time together, but not sleep.

She rejected the offers to venture downstairs to meet the male contestants, content to stick close to herself, either reading in the safety of her bedroom, or dragged around by Lila's demanding nature.

Papillon allowed her to do as she wished, clearly pleased with the shy personality that she was showing. She worried constantly about the edits that the show could've done, whether they made her appear to be blunt and rude, and her eyes prickled when she thought about her rejection of Adrien that had been recorded.

As much as she wanted to stand out, to be noticed for who she was, she didn't want anyone digging into her past. She was aware that contests such as the one she was in liked to delve into the reasons why someone was singing, what they held close and dear, and sometimes take a peek into their past to inspire pride and support from their homes or previous schools.

Lila linked their arms together as they walked through into the practice room they were assigned to. The staff at the front desk had given them large stickers to wear, much like the numbers in the first audition, with their first name's printed largely on them.

Viewers wouldn't know who they were straight away, after all.

The other groups were inside. The judges had played against each other to win to rights to either the male soloists, female soloists, or groups, to mentor and guide them to victory on the show. They were scattered across the room, standing awkwardly as they glanced towards the door to see whether it was their assigned mentor to walk inside.

Lila pulled her along to an open spot, the other two following behind them. Marinette's eyes flickered around the room, taking in the familiar faces that she'd seen in the waiting rooms, uncertain what they were supposed to do. There was four groups within the room, meaning there were four soloists of each gender waiting for their mentor, too.

She adamantly avoided looking where she knew Adrien was. She didn't want to deal with that bundle of emotions, not when her face already felt stiff and cold.

There would be ten weeks of live performances, all set of a large stage and broadcast live with an audience in the room, where they'd be criticised by the judges and leave their future up to the public vote each week, eliminating one per week until the final, where the top three would be announced based on that night's votes.

It was nerve-wracking and mad, yet it was everything she wanted and more. She may not be able to stand on the stage along, but she was determined to prove her worth, regardless of the extra members that were standing by her side.

Hell, it was worth it as long as she managed to beat one person.

“Your ambitions are pitiful, child,” Papillon whispered, the same bored tone that sounded similar to Armand at times. “That's why you have me, after all. I'm here to help you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://xiueryn.tumblr.com) (•ө•)♡


	2. 02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, the original plan for this was for the rivalry to be more heated and for hate kissing/sex to happen, but they're too sweet and innocent, so that's been abandoned. Papillon's not some evil creature, though, as some people seem to think: they're doing what they were programmed to do, and have no sense of right and wrong. They're supposed to be a somewhat likeable character (but I failed there, my bad). 
> 
> \- ̗̀art ̖́- [aoirin](http://aoirin.tumblr.com/tagged/tout-%C3%A0-coup), [jenneshi](https://jenneshi.tumblr.com/post/170359749900), [salty](http://salty-french-fry.tumblr.com/post/169598249832).

_Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Chat Noir © Thomas Astruc_

The groups were assigned Caline.

As she was an accomplished singer, one that had held number ones and received awards for over a decade, the red-haired female was able to act as a mentor well. She introduced herself to everyone with bright smiles, assigning each of the different groups a time to get to know her throughout the day. They were assigned separate rooms to practice in—so there would be no conflict between those that didn't know each other—and professional coaches were set to come in throughout the weeks, to help and guide them to achieve their best.

It turned out that one of the things Marinette was missing, and had stubbornly ignored, was dancing. Caline was a firm believer that any singer, even soloists, that stood still on a stage looked dreadfully boring. She was an artist filled with enthusiasm and a confident voice, one that she'd trained to be able to dance and sing to an above-average level.

A lot of them were just starting out. Each group received a choreographer to help them in their practice rooms, and they were set to be there for the full durations they'd be on the live shows for. Even if they were to perform a ballad, there had to be some form of dancing due to Caline's insistence.

What was worse than warming up and dancing between the other three females she'd been paired with, even more embarrassing than being sweaty with her clothes sticking to her skin, was the fact that cameras were installed in almost every room in the building (the cleaning supply closet being the exception, along with the bathrooms).

As they were allowed in the practice rooms throughout the day, given access codes to enter the building at all, it was their own responsibility to travel to and from the dorms, which was only a few minutes walk. It was advised for them to alert security if strangers were crowding the gates, or if they spotted suspicious activity.

Their coaches, and even Caline, all agreed that Marinette was the best vocalist of her group. The downside, however, was that she was absolutely awful at dancing. She felt clumsy and uncoordinated, and Papillon could do nothing to soothe her troubles. The _Kwami_ was only capable of locking her limbs in place, which had no place in her attempts to dance.

They were able to whisper advice in her head, though.

“Miss Cheng, I have explained how to do this particular movement three times,” Papillon drawled, in their ever-bored tone. “Are you certain you require another?”

She looked in the mirror in front of her and nodded. With the cameras, and she assumed microphones, too, it wasn't safe to talk to them aloud. She settled with awkwardly resisting the sarcastic comments, venting her frustrations when her room-mate had disappeared to socialise with others. As nice as Lila had turned out to be, she didn't want the tanned female to suddenly hear her talking to herself and assume the worse.

The theme for the first live show was debut songs—which was fitting—and with Caline giving them a choice of three, Marinette had placed her vote in for the upbeat one, knowing that the higher-pitched notes were bound to impressive towards the end.

Along with the mandatory dancing lessons with the choreographers, meeting vocal coaches in their assigned room, and trying to figure out their meals together, there was something else that Caline insisted on. For good teamwork between all of her groups, she'd made it so each group was teamed up with another, encouraged to spend their free time together to help their budding relationships and allow the viewers to see their good points.

It caused her to sour from the moment it was uttered, and then when she saw that Adrien's group had been the one assigned to hers, she honestly wanted to grip at her hair in frustration. Papillon stiffened her hands, whispering a warning to behave in her head, reminding her that there were cameras all around, waiting to capture the outrageous moments and catch her worst sides.

So, it was with a blank expression that she was dragged by Lila to the living room, awkwardly carrying ingredients in her hands. Aurore, a social butterfly, had decided that they'd cook and eat dinner together to get to know each other.

They were the two groups that had four members each. Adrien was there, with his blond hair that fell to his ears, neatly combed and longer than she'd seen him have growing up. Beside him, as the tallest member, was a tanned male with short curly black hair and spectacles, who introduced himself as Nino. The two had obviously bonded, happy to sit by each other and interact while everyone tried to decide who their best cooks were.

The other two were quieter, had shy smiles and were soft-spoken and polite when they introduced themselves; Nathaniel with his red-coloured hair, pale skin, the shortest of the males (an inch or so taller than her, though), and Ivan, who had wide shoulders and muscles that paled in comparison to his wonderful laugh.

Nathaniel was the one that cooked with her. As they were out of earshot of the rest of the group, but could still hear the laughter, Marinette found herself relaxing, creating conversation with him that wasn't too forced. When they were dishing up the food, she was somewhat surprised to find that he was genuinely likeable, and there had been no talk of competitiveness.

With everyone sat down on stools, plates in front of them, it was Nino that broke the silence with, “So, you didn't poison this, right?”

Marinette looked at him and replied flatly, “You do realise that I didn't cook this alone, right?”

Laughing, the bespectacled male simply picked up his cutlery. “I'm just checking, okay. I wouldn't put it past you guys to try and sabotage us before our first performance.” When he received glares from all of her group—including Juleka, who'd sat herself beside Ivan—Nino held up his hands in a sign of surrender. “That's what happens, isn't it? I looked it up online, and it's pretty common.”

“Yes, and then the ones that do the sabotaging are kicked out of the show,” Aurore pointed out, leaning back with raised eyebrows. “Considering there's countless cameras around the dorms—and that they're recording this very conversation—only an idiot would try it.”

“Well, this is some good bonding,” Adrien quipped, sounding thoroughly amused.

Her stomach tightened as she looked down at her plate. She'd introduced herself to him flatly and then turned away, addressing the others with a much friendlier expression—meaning it wasn't purposely blank due to Papillon's interference—all of which should've been blatantly obvious to the others. She knew that coming across rude, making herself a target because of negative emotions, was a bad idea, but the thought of sucking it up and pretending to be polite, to see his smile directed at her when it caused a trickle of awkward adolescent memories, made her feel more uncomfortable.

Since she was one of the duo to cook, Marinette placed down her cutlery and stood up to leave, uttering a quiet, “Excuse me.”

When she was securely in her room, dressed ready for bed to have some time alone, Marinette rested upon her mattress, staring up at the ceiling and wondered about her chances for the upcoming days. It was two nights before their performance, where she'd have to stand onstage with others and be judged by the public, all the while trying to remember the specific dance moves that alluded her.

That was when Papillon decided to interrupt her musing with a comment of, “Well, this has worked out in your favour for publicity.”

Her eyes darted to the door. “What are you on about?”

“It seems that Agreste boy that you hate is considered famous on the internet—he has quite the following, and from the posts I've found online since the first episodes have aired, the public are already speculating your relationship,” the _Kwami_ revealed blandly.

She paled. It was always known that the supercomputer was able to access the internet from her somehow; they'd been able to direct them while driving before, and could research fashion trends and other information. However, she hadn't thought they'd bypass the restrictions that contestants were given, therefore making it so she was cheating by being told.

“What?” Marinette choked out quietly.

There was no humourless chuckle, no comforting speech to make her feel better. Papillon had followed her thought process easily. “I am not restricted by such actions,” they pointed out. “They will not know that I am the one that got through their security, nor will the blame be shifted to you. I am untraceable, Miss Cheng.”

An untraceable mentor that was able to tell her about the news that should've been kept from them. Marinette groaned into her hands from a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort, stomach churning from knowing that she was using forbidden ways to move forward. “What were you saying about Adrien?”

“I've been able to find fifty-three videos of him singing online, all of which have steadily increased in popularity over the past two years,” the _Kwami_ replied, no qualms in helping her cheat. “From your rejection of him, that was, indeed, a portion of the episode that aired, his fans have speculated that you dislike his videos, and therefore him.”

She sighed. “That's not reassuring for me at all.”

“A majority of the anger is directed at the judges for forcing him into a group,” they interjected. “It is nothing to be afraid of. Your auditions garnered you a lot of attention; you are currently the fifth most watched audition on the internet, while the Agreste boy is the first.”

With those statistics in mind, Marinette changed into clothes for working out, and made her way to the studio to practice her dancing again.

Their practices were called off the following day. With the live shows a day away, they were ordered to rest to not injure themselves, and with that Caline handed the lot of them off to stylists. As it turned out, makeovers were a large part of such shows; whenever contestants made it to the live shows, they were revealed to look different to how they did before, with the right make-up on so they wouldn't look ghostly underneath the lights.

Marinette didn't protest as she was directed to a chair, and she was immediately thankful that the stylist had to confirm their vision with her first.

When they asked her to have short hair—not to her shoulders, or around that length, but buzzed at the bottom—she'd refused flatly with, “Absolutely not.”

It wasn't bad after that. Layers were put into her hair, and it was shortened a tad so it went down to her collarbones, and her bangs were cut in again. Jukela's black hair that fell to her waist faded purple at the ends, Lila had a thick fringe cut in, and Aurore was given bangs that were swept to the side. Other than Marinette, the other three were able to keep the length of their hair.

There was staring as the groups met backstage in their casual clothing, each taking the other's changed looks as they greeted each other awkwardly.

Adrien seemed unchanged, while Nino's hair had been cut short enough that his curls weren't visible. Nathaniel's was shortened on one side, while the other reached just below his jawline—with his bangs swept to that side—and Ivan had his hair dyed blond at the front only, a small section that stood out due to the rest being short.

Some of the others she spied looked unrecognisable, especially a soloist that walked past with dyed blonde hair. It was only from Papillon's whisper that she realised who it was, and by that point they'd walked off.

Stylists came in to give them their outfits, put on their make-up and style their hair, and Marinette was a nervous ball of energy as she sat in the seat, trying to stay still as her dark strands were fiddled with. Papillon was telling her the time that was remaining until the show went live, and it was five minutes later that Caline came into the room, revealing the order that they would be performing.

Marinette's group went third.

She was clad in tight jeans and a t-shirt that was reminiscent to the music video of the song they were performing—no high-heeled shoes yet, thankfully—and minutes before they were sent on, they had to stand backstage as Alya fluttered around, passing different microphones and earpieces to each of them, making sure they were comfortable in the small amount of time they had.

On the stage, that faced the judges in their elongated desk and the rest of the large hall filled with the audience, a large screen showed a montage of their time spent together; a mesh of practices, personal time in the dorms in front of the cameras, and even a small section that featured her group eating with Adrien's.

With the familiar microphone in her hand, the earpiece that she'd always wore that matched with Chloé's, she took a deep breath before walking on the stage, leading the way for the rest of her group behind her. Through the brave faces, it was clear that the other females were just as nervous as she, but she felt the need to reassure them that it would be fine, that they'd practise hard enough to be recognised.

She held Lila's hand when she looked over her shoulder to see that the brunette was lagging behind, squeezing gently in silent support.

Lila returned the movement.

Taking their positions onstage, a cue came through the earpiece, warning them that the song was about to start as the spotlights fell onto them.

It was a lot better than their first performance together. Marinette didn't fall behind from the small amount of choreography, instead keeping up the others, her movements only a tad sloppier than Aurore's. Caline had divided the song to give Marinette the least amount of lines, but she was given the high notes in the background, and the opportunity to belt and attract attention towards herself at the end, finally showing having the spotlights on her for more than a few words that she'd had for the first half.

Juleka sang a second too early for one of her sections, which had caused her to flush, but hadn't thrown her off their performance. The tall female was their best dancer, and it showed especially after her mistake, moves executed well in an attempt to make up for the fumble.

Nadja came out onto the stage with a bright smile and microphone in her hand, asking questions about how they felt about their performance. Lila and Aurore were their designated chatterers, talking up a storm while Marinette recollected her breath, and she might've jumped in surprise as Juleka walked over to stand beside her with a smile.

When Nadja turned to the judges for their opinions, it was Armand that responded first. “That performance was a lot more put together than your previous ones, girls. As glad as I am that you managed to find an understanding, I find myself having to question Caline's decision.”

“He is not the only one,” Papillon input, the sudden interruption no longer making Marinette physically stiffen. “There have been seventy-two comments on why you were given the least lines thus far.”

She didn't know how to feel about that.

“Oh?” Caline questioned, eyebrows raised as he turned to look at her colleague. “I know you wanted to have the groups, Armand, but that doesn't mean you have to make me look bad because of your jealousy. It's perfectly fine to praise them without having to insult me in the same sentence.”

A short laugh escaped him. “The song wasn't a good choice; they would've been better off with one that highlighted their strengths, rather than pandering to your need to have them prance around the stage.”

As it became clear there the two judges had different opinions, Penny leaned forward to obstruct their view of each other. “It was a lovely performance, really. I enjoyed it immensely, especially since we know that you were all soloists before. It's clear that your voices _can_ work together, but I have to agree with Armand here, Caline. The dancing came too soon, and it was obvious that at least two of them had never danced before.”

“The sooner it's input into their performances, the sooner they can improve,” the red-haired judge defended. “They've been working hard, learning to sing while dancing through the week, and I'm immensely proud of how far they've come.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Nadja said loudly, drawing attention to herself with a pleasant smile. “As amusing as it is to hear you three bicker, we only have a few minutes left of allocated time.” And with that said, she turned them, looking specifically at her and Juleka, the two that hadn't spoken yet. “Do you two have anything to say to the judges?”

Papillon encouraged her with, “You do.”

The microphone was pointed towards her, Nadja raising her eyebrows in request for a silent answer, and it was clear from Juleka's stiff form that the taller female wasn't going to respond.

“Miss Cheng, I am capable of causing more than your nose to bleed,” the _Kwami_ reminded her grimly. “I've been researched that there's a bodily function that I can control that will result in your humiliation.”

 _She_ —

Marinette gulped. Although she'd grown somewhat comfortable with the presence in her head, there was still no forgetting that it had absolute power over her. There was no about of protesting she could do that would sway their opinions, and grossly crying didn't cause it to feel sympathy—computers didn't have emotions, after all.

A pressure became known on the lower half of her body, and that spurred her into action.

“The line distribution was unfair,” she blurted, not sounding as panicked as she felt. Marinette's heart was beating in her chest, and the pressure subsiding from her response. It was horrifying to realise that she could be threatened with such a thing, let alone the fact that it was on live television.

The conversations ended after that. Nadja called out the number the public had to call, or message, to vote for Marinette's group to get through to the next round, and they were herded off of the stage by the members of stage that were hovering, beckoning with their hands.

“Hey, good job out there,” Alya greeted her with a pleasant smile as she retrieved the earpieces and microphones, comment mostly directed towards Marinette.

Her own lips tugged into a shy smile. “Thanks.”

“For what it's worth, I do agree with what you said,” the red-head announced as she left, arms bundled with the equipment.

There was no good-bye or words of advice; just that simple comment before her departure. So far, though, other than the coaches and choreographers, Alya had been the kindest member of staff throughout the auditions and shows. The ones that they confirmed their identities with, or security that they had to tell they were going out, were stern-faced and straight to the point, mostly unapproachable.

To make it fair, votes wouldn't start going through until the end of the show, and then there would be a period of two hours of downtime where the votes were tallied and counted, and the contestants would be herded back onstage after nervously eating the food provided backstage.

Marinette had grabbed one of the books that were provided, choosing to immerse herself in fiction instead of bonding with the other contestants. They were chattering around her, sitting down at tables and eating the food provided, but her stomach was churning from the nerves too noticeably for her to feel comfortable with eating. So, she flipped through the pages, listening to Papillon's idle comments on the response that the episode had garnered online thus far, not sure whether the knowledge that one of the male soloists had absolutely butchered his song should make her feel guilty or not.

“Hey,” Juleka greeted as she sat down beside her, still clad in the jeans and t-shirt that the group had been made to wear. They were told to stay in the same outfits for the two hour break, so they could be recognisable when they go onstage, despite the fact that there would be pictures of them on the screen or have Nadja announce their names. “How are you feeling?”

She closed the book and placed it on the table in front of her. “I'm okay, thank you,” Marinette replied politely, knowing that cameras were watching them. “How are you? You did well tonight.”

“There's no need to flatter me,” the taller female answered softly, a shy smile on her lips. “I know I messed up, and I just want you to know that I'm sorry for that.”

It had barely been a mistake, though. Papillon had said that the comments about their performance had focused on the distribution—and Aurore's midriff when she'd raised her arms dancing—rather than Juleka's mistiming. If anything, it had been ignored, not treated as a humorous moment like Lila's had been from the previous week's show.

“You did great, Juleka.” Marinette shook her head. “In comparison to my dancing, you were amazing, okay? There's nothing to be worried about.”

Fiddling with the purple ends of her hair, Juleka's brown-coloured eyes flickered up to see at her curiously. “I—I've been worried about talking to you for a while now,” she admitted, voice a soft mumble that could only just be heard alongside the chatter of the room. “You're pretty unapproachable, you know?”

No, she did not know. “Oh.” Marinette blinked. “Am I coming across as a total bitch or something? It's not my intention, I'm... I'm just not very good with people, I guess.”

To her surprise, Juleka's lips turned into a grin. “Me, too,” she confessed, expression warmer and more genuine that it had been before; her smile reached her eyes, causing the corners to crinkle in an adorable way. “If you wanted to, I mean—I could help you out with your dancing?” Juleka offered, sounding self-conscious and curious all at once. “I've been taking lessons since I was little, so I'm not a complete beginner.”

“Accept,” Papillon commanded her.

As it would've been more informative than Papillon's instructions via watching videos—that she couldn't even _see—_ she had planned to accept from the beginning. It would help her bond with Juleka outside of their small talk at meals, and allow them to become more comfortable instead of being defensive about their faults in the group.

After she'd accepted, they discussed books that they'd read, as it turned out that they had similar tastes. One of the female soloists had listened into their conversation and tentatively joined in, sharing their opinions as the time passed, and it was to someone entering the room and knocking loudly to catch their attention that she realised that the two hour break was almost up.

Marinette navigated the room to find Aurore and Lila sat with Adrien's group. She hovered awkwardly, not wanting to interrupt their conversation with her presence, so she leaned against the wall and fiddled with her hair, smiling gratefully as Juleka came to stand beside her, visibly nervous as she tugged her t-shirt down.

They were all herded on stage, made to stand in sections to show which mentor they'd been assigned, and Nadja stood at the front of the stage with the lights focused on her. She greeted the audience, addressing the cameras with the microphone in her hand, showing the bright smile that she was known for as she remarked that voting was closed, and that the numbers were being tallied.

An embarrassing montage of each contestant's practice sessions from that week showed on the screen behind them to buy time; Marinette saw herself fall over while dancing, and Aurore grimace as she butchered a note. There was laughter from the audience from the scenes shown, and she was sure that Papillon would tell her later which scenes was the most praised or commented on.

Sometimes, she wasn't sure whether to be grateful for the presence she had in her head. It was an unfair advantage, yes, and she wouldn't have accepted it if she had known what the _Kwami_ was capable of. Although Papillon's intentions were clear from the beginning—to make her successful, no matter the cost—it was the fact that they could harm her that had her worrying the most. The recent threat to have her soil herself on live television had renewed the budding terror of what could happen.

“There's no need to be melodramatic, Miss Cheng,” her _Kwami_ commented flatly. “I am here to make you a better version of yourself; someday, you'll have to toss away your childish ideals and accept my advice without a fight.”

Names were called in a random order to say who had passed. Nadja called her group fifth, and she walked off of the stage stiffly, surprised that they'd managed to make it through despite the whispers in her head assuring her that their performances had been well received. There was no way for Papillon to know what the results would be before they were revealed—at least, she hoped not, as having the supercomputer in her head hack the show she was participating in didn't seem like a good idea.

A male soloist was eliminated.

-x-

A problem occurred the following week in the form of a male shouting out behind her, “Wait up!”

Marinette almost tripped over in the street. She'd managed to regain her balance, cheeks burning from embarrassment, and when she looked over her shoulder to glare at the person that had called out, the expression fell flat when she saw who it actually was.

With his blond-coloured hair sticking out in different directions, clearly not brushed, Adrien fell in step beside her with a wide smile. “Hey! You're going to go practice, aren't you?” he said as a greeting, as though she hadn't brushed him off rudely the previous times when they were together with their groups. “Everyone left without me a few minutes ago because I couldn't find my other shoe.”

Papillon steadily pointed out, “There's no cameras or microphones around to pick up your interaction.”

With that in mind, she didn't feel guilty as she shrugged and straightened out to walk and said, “Good for you.”

Rather than taking the hint that she didn't walk to talk, Adrien kept up with her pace, moving to be beside her, shoulders almost touching as he avoided the passing cars. “So, are you purposely trying to be the mysterious one? Nino's betting that it's your character for the show.”

As laughable as that was, she was aware that some of the other contestants were trying to force a personality on camera. Papillon had given her a rundown of what had been shown each week, saying the inconsistencies and the ones that she should feel threatened by. Adrien's group had the second most viewed performance of the previous week, and Marinette's was fourth.

“Have you considered that, maybe, I don't want to get to know you?” Marinette replied coldly, keeping her eyes on where she was walking. The studio was only a few streets away, a small distance that they were unsupervised for. “I'm not interested in insincere friendships, especially not with the likes of you.”

“Oh,” Adrien breathed, not sounding hurt by the the retort. There was a moment where only the sound of their footsteps and the passing vehicles filled the silence, one where she felt increasingly awkward, still aware that her cheeks were coloured red from her hurt pride and memories of her teenage years. “If this is because you think my fans will attack you, I can't make any promises that they won't.”

She blinked.

From the corner of her eyes, she could see that he'd reached up to fiddle with his hair. “That's why you didn't want to be paired together, right?”

 _That—_ she wanted to laugh, truly. Marinette hadn't fretted or worried on whether Adrien would be offended by her actions, instead wondering how the public would view them, but for him to come towards her with such words was absurd, but amusing. A burst of laughter escaped her, only spurred on when he looked baffled, and within seconds she raised a hand to try and muffle the sound.

When she'd gotten herself under control, having stopped in front of the building they'd been travelling to, Marinette looked up at him with a bitter smile. “You don't remember me, do you?”

His eyebrows were pinched together, a clear look of confusion as he stood beside her, looking down in befuddlement. “What?” Adrien questioned.

That was all the confirmation she needed, really. He'd heard her name announced by the judges before she was in the group—when they'd been selected to be together—and yet it hadn't triggered any memories. Maybe, he hadn't known her at all; to him she had only been Arin, the boy that had had a crush on him, one that he'd tried to reject in the easiest way possible for him (which happened to be in the middle of the dining hall, so other students were within hearing distance and could audibly laugh at her).

“The cameras here are for security purposes,” Papillon reminded her. “You're only recorded in the designated rooms.”

Well, that sounded the closest to encouragement that she'd get from her _Kwami_.

“I'm not interested in being your friend because I know _you_ ,” Marinette proclaimed, eyes flickering up to his as she gazed at him coldly. “Outside of the polite smiles and friendly face, I know that you don't really care about others—you're an inconsiderate person, Adrien Agreste.”

His green eyes widened.

Her smile wasn't sincere. “I'm looking forward to beating you.”

And with that said, she walked away.

If Adrien was greatly offended by their brief interaction, he didn't show it; they saw each other in their designated rooms at first before they split off to practice, with Caline bouncing between the doorways to eventually talk to them.

Marinette was civil, and shyly kind, to the other members of his group whenever they spoke, finding herself warming up to Ivan, as he reminded her fondly of Chloé's bodyguard (perhaps it was the wide shoulders and stoic expressions, despite how soft-spoken he was). She happily grinned back and waved when they passed each other in the halls, didn't put up too much of a fuss when Aurore insisted that their shared meal the previous week should be repeated—not just for the cameras, but because having good relationships with their fellow groups wasn't a terrible idea—so, it was with amusement that she watched as two were selected at random, nominated by childish games, to be the ones to cook.

With Juleka helping her out with her dancing during the day, specifically when the four of them practised after their choreographer had left to direct other contestants, she was able to get to know her group-mates better, not just with the passing comments in the mornings or idle talk as they tried to live together.

Marinette learned that Aurore was stubborn at first with criticism, but was able to accept it after the topic was changed and she was able to think about it. Lila had a penchant for laughing too loudly and waking her up in the middle of the night due to a random thought or a paragraph in a book amusing her. And Juleka, with her shy smiles and shuffling feet when she wasn't dancing, was more than happy to just sit beside her and read, rather than watch the films that were available.

As the days passed, it was clear that others had found certain friend groups within their home, too. Sometimes, there were good-hearted taunts and jeers from contestants, and she'd once heard only a few insults that had actual heat behind them from some of the soloists. Most of the time, though, they were too exhausted after practising all day to have an enthusiastic conversation in the evenings.

After the steady success the show had already received, a new section was added to the website, where visitors could select a contestant they wanted to see cooking. It was a special video that was posted on the website only, shot with good cameras rather than the ones dotted on the walls, so it was partway through the week that contestants were told not to enter the non-gendered kitchen, as Adrien's group was the only one that was wanted to be seen.

The second week's show found her wearing an outfit that she'd never would have worn willingly. The theme picked was adequately labelled imagination, which Caline had happily suggested upbeat songs that had different meanings to each listener, and the stylists had freely dressed her in tight shorts hidden beneath a skirt, that didn't even reach halfway down her thigh, and a shirt that was in an equally bright colour. It was the type of outfit that she'd see at a fancy dress party, and she shuffled awkwardly backstage in it, sharing grimaces with others who had equally uncomfortable outfits.

Adrien's group went before her, and when he came out, smiling brightly from the praise that she'd heard on the television backstage, he purposely looked at her across the room, then raised his hand to head and _saluted_.

And, somehow, that small gesture was caught on camera, along with her blank expression as she watched him walk away. It wasn't aired until after the two hour break, included in the montage of that week's events, and Papillon later told her that it was one of the most talked about parts.

A duo group was eliminated.

-x-

Throughout the week, Papillon informed her on the popular topics related to the show. Adrien's appearance stirred interest, of course; it turned out, due to his fans online and an anonymous interview that was released in a magazine, that he'd originally planned to sign onto a company to debut alone in the upcoming year, but it fell apart a few months ago—which was the reason for him signing up to the competition. He was easily the most spoken about contestant, a fan favourite due to his amount of followers online, and because of that his group won the website exclusive section again.

Other than a soloist's performance that had garnered a lot of views, a new topic had risen up on forums, one that had her nervously running her hands through her hair in the privacy of her bedroom. Adrien's salute combined with her cold stare had garnered attention, and one user had taken it upon themselves to place all of their interactions in one video—it showed her rejecting him at the auditions, eating dinner without looking at each other, and then the much talked about salute.

“This is good,” Papillon insisted after informing her. “It's a way for you to be noticed outside of your voice; keep up your rivalry with this Agreste boy and you'll attract the much needed attention to make yourself known.”

She groaned into her hands. “Known for being a bitch, you mean? Juleka already said that I seemed hard to approach, and I don't know whether that's because of you, or if I'm naturally just repulsive to other people.”

“I am not here to be your therapist,” the _Kwami_ replied, sounding as though they were commenting on the weather. “You are free to befriend those you wish. I will only interfere if I believe the relationship will be harmful to your future. As you're trying to stray from the topic, I'm advising you to return the gesture after your performance this week. It's highly unlikely that his will be before yours again.”

As tempting as it sounded, the dark-haired female muttered, “You mean you're commanding me, not advising.”

“I tried to use different wording to see whether you'd respond better, Miss Cheng,” was the respond she received. “If it suits you better, I can promise to punish you if you disobey my instructions.”

It was like having a permanent teacher that looked out for her in an aggressive manner, one that she couldn't shake, no matter what she did. “Right,” she mumbled, closing her eyes. “So, antagonise him in front of the cameras? I'm not exactly against it, but that's—I'm not like _that_.”

“A friendship with him will only hinder you, Miss Cheng,” Papillon drawled. “From my calculations, negative feelings towards him have excellent results, rather than reverting back into your infatuation with him. I advise you to ignore him until after performances; having a rival you wish to beat is, apparently, a good motivator for your kind, too.”

She wondered whether having a rival in school would've made her focus more on her grades, rather than only wanting to run home and spend time with her mother.

“My kind?” Marinette repeated, furrowing her eyebrows.

If they could, Papillon sounded like they would've sighed. “Human.”

Adrien and Lila were the ones that won the honour of cooking that week. Lila's laugh was audible from across the room as she tried to avoid putting pans on the heat, insisting that she was only good for stirring, and it caused a few chortles to escape from her loud protests. When a plate was placed in front of her, with the blond-haired male giving her a smile that didn't reach his eyes or show his dimples at all, she furrowed her eyebrows at him before looking away.

There was nothing wrong with the food, though. The thought of wondering whether he was petty enough to give her the burnt sections hadn't crossed her mind; after all, there were cameras dotted around them, catching their every move.

When she was clad in a lacy outfit, one more elegant than the previous two that the stylists had given her, waiting backstage as she fiddled with the material of her skirt, Nino came to stand beside her, similarly adjusting the tie that he'd been given (it was bright and stood out from the rest of the dark-coloured outfit).

His grin was kind as he greeted her with, “Hey, Marinette. Where are the other girls at?”

Tilting her head in the direction briefly, she answered, “Hair and make-up, still. I managed to nab a spot when some of the soloists were being done.”

“Sneaky.” The dark-haired male whistled, raising his eyebrows. The glasses he usually wore around their dorms were swapped out for contact lenses, as the glare of his spectacles weren't good for television, apparently. “Good luck this week, okay? I think even without Adrien's popularity, our song would be able to compete with yours just fine.”

She blinked. “You don't even know what song we're singing— _wait_ , what?”

“Come on,” Nino said with a laugh. “I'm not an idiot, and nor are the other contestants. It's not a secret that Adrien's the star of the show, especially not when he's so open about it. The dude has no problems telling anyone that asks that he posts videos online—it made one of the soloists angry because they consider it an unfair advantage.”

“Oh.” If they considered being somewhat known on the internet to be an unfair advantage, then what would they say about a supercomputer being in her brain? “I mean, I don't really see the problem with it? It wasn't in the rules, and he clearly got through auditions after telling them. It's not like it's a dirty secret that he's ashamed of.”

The grin she received showed his teeth. “Yeah, exactly!” Nino agreed, hand falling to pat her on the shoulder before he turned away. After a few steps, he looked at her over his shoulder and said in farewell, “I can see your clique coming, so I'll disappear for now. See you later, Marinette.”

Lila's arms were wrapped around her shoulders a few moments later. “Tell me your outfit's also horrendously itchy, too, please.”

She huffed out a laugh. “The lace?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the brunette groaned, resting her head against Marinette's carefully styled hair. “I'm either going to flash someone, or end up giving into the urge to itch myself onstage. It's bound to be embarrassing either way.”

Reaching up to pat the top of Lila's head, Marinette pointed out, “That's why they have us wear tiny shorts underneath, silly girl. Our modesty is very important to the nation, Lila.”

“No underwear shots before nine o'clock?”

She laughed. “That's exactly right. Now, even if you slip over and embarrass yourself, there won't be any videos of you showing your underwear on the internet. Isn't that something to be glad about?”

“Great,” Lila mumbled into her hair. “I bet you I'll be the first one to slip over out of the four of us. I'm not even kidding, as soon as Caline tries to get us to perform in anything high-heeled, I'm going to be a glorious disaster.”

Glancing down at her feet, taking in the tiny heel that were on her modest-looking shoes, she questioned, “What about tonight? They're higher than the shoes we usually practice in.”

The brunette barked out a laugh. “Marinette, these heels are the size of my fingernail. I'm not going to embarrass myself yet.”

As their song was a ballad, there wasn't much dancing involved. Caline had been insistent on arm movements and tiny steps, not the energetic routine she'd influenced them to do the previous weeks, so there weren't any disasters. The line distribution had evened out slightly, with Juleka gaining verses that she shared with Aurore's strong voice, and Marinette was able to shine by holding a long note, one that she'd been particularly proud of when she was younger and first practising.

The only criticism they received was to work on blending their voices together, rather than having individual parts other than the chorus. It was understandable; Caline had decided from the beginning that they needed to explore their own abilities first before meshing them together, and that was showing in their performances. Yet, the audience cheered loudly, and Marinette's smile reached her eyes as she breathed heavily, happy to allow her other members to answer Nadja, pleased just to be onstage and able to see the reactions in person.

When she walked backstage, heels audible on the floorboards, she purposely caused her lips to curl into a smug smirk as Adrien looked up at their entrance.

He raised his eyebrows in return.

Marinette was sat backstage with a blanket, watching the screen that they were provided with that showed what was happening live. She leaned against Juleka—who put up no protests—and shared a bottle of water.

Ivan's low voice was beautiful to listen to. He was chosen to be the main vocal of his group for that night's performance because of the emotion he was able to portray with his soft rasps, and when Nathaniel harmonised with him, it was clear to see why Nino had been proud of their upcoming song. Adrien didn't dominate the distribution, but he had a stage presence that drew attention to him, even while he was swaying and supporting the others without the intent of being the focus.

“They're good,” Aurore remarked from where she was slouched, not at all looking like the prim and elegant figure that had been on the stage not too long ago. “I guess I underestimated their ballad potential because of all the upbeat music we've done lately.”

“That's rude,” Juleka reprimanded quietly, no heat to her words. “You should value all our competitors equally.”

The blonde laughed softly. “Yes, mother.”

“I think you're older than me, actually,” Juleka replied, fiddling with the purple at the ends of her hair curiously. It had been curled, so the colours blended together beautifully, standing out against the formal outfit. “I—I just think it's unfair for you to judge others when we're still trying to work together ourselves.”

Lila reached over and placed a hand on her head, similar to how Marinette had done to her earlier that evening. “You're definitely the mother of the group, sorry. I would've thought for sure that it would be Marinette, but apparently not.”

Marinette blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Aurore agreed, leaning her back back so she didn't have to move forward to see her clearly. “You're the one that helps make sure we all eat, after all.”

“And the one getting extra dance lessons,” she pointed out in her own defence. “I can't be the mother if Juleka's the one tutoring me, that's not right.”

The playful argument was interrupted by Papillon's bored drawl of, “Pay attention to your competitors, Miss Cheng. There's time to be childish when you're dressed casually.”

Understanding that it was a demand, Marinette held back a sigh and gestured towards the screen, effectively ending the conversation. The performance had ended, and the cameras were zooming in to capture the bright smiles on their faces, showing Nino putting a proud arm around Ivan's shoulders to being him into a quick hug.

The only question that piqued her interest was when Nadja asked, “What would you say is motivating you nowadays?”

She gestured towards each of them with the microphone, receiving answers of singing for the pleasure of it, to prove that they were capable of being there, and it was when she pointed to Adrien that the blond-haired male raised a hand to the nape of his neck and answered, “Well, a rivalry, I guess?”

It sounded like a question, but the other members laughed with him, clearly understanding what he'd meant.

She refused to fidget.

As the group came backstage, meeting the staff members that were there to take off their microphones and earpieces, Nino was visibly distracted as he grinned and waved his hand, the one that he had the microphone in, from across the room, teeth showing as Marinette stared right back.

“I told you!” he called loudly, intending the comment to be between them, despite the other contestants and countless employees that walked around.

Alya, the employee that was closest to their age, reached up into his waving hand to retrieve the equipment. “Let me do my job before you get all hyperactive,” the red-head chastised.

“Right, sorry,” Nino blurted, releasing the hold and causing the microphone to clatter loudly to the floor from his carelessness.

As he reached down to collect it, he ended up knocking his shoulder against Alya's body—as she'd crouched to pick it up, too—and it resulted in her falling backwards with an undignified noise of surprise escaping her.

“Oh, fuck,” Nino swore, forgetting about the microphone as his hands moved around quickly, not quite sure whether to touch her to see whether she was okay.

Alya glared, reaching up to push her spectacles—that Marinette hadn't seen before—back onto the bridge of her nose. “I'm _fine_ , I just need your damn microphone so I can piss off and eat my dinner.”

And with that said, the red-head got to her feet and picked up the fallen microphone, intentionally glaring at Nino before she collected the other equipment from his members, then walked off with it collected in her arms. Nino visibly winced as disappeared, shouting out a loud apology that only drew more attention to him.

Adrien's group came to settle beside them, accepting the blankets that Aurore tossed at them, and the bottle of water that was rolled over. It was a friendly interaction that they'd done the previous week; making it so the eight of them were comfortable and not feeling awkward as they waited backstage before they were dismissed into the other rooms of the building where they had to stay for the two hour break. The security made sure they didn't wander outside and get lost, and they were restricted to the food that would be available after the first show, so no cooking was permitted.

The screen where they could see each other's performances made up for the downtime, though the two hours were spent with some of them napping on different surfaces, no judgement in each other's eyes.

Marinette slept beside Juleka on a small couch before the second show, and it was after that they found out that another male soloist was eliminated.

-x-

As suspected, Adrien's comment had caused viewers to come to their own conclusions about their relationship. Papillon was thrilled—well, as pleased as an emotionless supercomputer could be—with the development, and it seemed that the show had realised the potential for the blond-haired male's popularity.

Rather than selecting only one group to see in the kitchen, the website added a new option where voters that confirmed their e-mail could nominate specific contestants outside of their groups, allowing the public to select up to two participants, not including the rest of their members.

It wasn't a surprise when Adrien was selected for it again; Nino had been right before in saying that the rest of them knew of his popularity. Although the numbers were never revealed, no one protested when the blond had a solo segment in the kitchen, where he had to awkwardly talk to the camera by himself, with no one else allowed in the area. The producers didn't want random contestants walking in to try and draw attention to themselves, so there was at least one member of staff on lookout.

The conversations she had with Adrien were silent. They either raised eyebrows at each other, or smiled smugly whenever they crossed paths at practice, and although it didn't feel malicious, it still got on her nerves. Sometimes, she caught him staring at her curiously, before looking away when she noticed. It was a reaction she wasn't used to; for most of her life, she'd been the one shying away when gazes turned her way.

She hadn't intended for such a relationship to build, and she knew that her younger self would've been overjoyed with the attention; the extent of their conversations in school had been an apology and the rejection. She'd managed to grow up and attract his attention in a different way, and she wasn't at all happy with that.

Marinette glowered at him the next time they walked past each other.

The other contestants picked up on it, of course.

Lila was the only one from her group to ask her, “What's going on with you and Adrien?”

They were in their beds, trying to sleep despite the sweltering heat and nerves from the upcoming show. Marinette's legs felt sore from the dancing, even more so from Juleka's help after dinner before they'd returned back to the dorm, and she felt lethargic most days. It was a state that the others shared; caffeinated drinks were popular in the mornings, even more so when those that weren't good at waking up wandered out of their bedrooms.

There was no alarm sounding throughout the rooms, so if they weren't able to arrive to the studios on time via using the clocks provided on their bedside tables, they were chastised and threatened that if it happened repeatedly—them not showing interest in bettering themselves—there was the chance of them being evicted from the contest. Offensive comments, violence, or scandals could also result in their expulsion, and that was the reason for the constant cameras and security.

“I don't like him,” Marinette confessed honestly, curling up into a more comfortable position with the duvet thrown off of her.

“Okay,” the brunette replied easily, voice seeming to echo in their tiny bedroom. Their personal belongings were limited—and had been checked beforehand—so they only had a few photographs stuck on the wall and their clothing. “I'm assuming he pissed you off in the auditions?”

She snorted. “Something like that.”

“I'm not going to complain.” Lila laughed softly. “I'm probably only here because of you rejecting him. I should be thanking him, really.”

The irony of her words weren't lost. Marinette muffled her laughter into the sheets, quietening down after she'd gotten herself under control, and it was only when Lila's breathing had evened out and signalled that she was asleep that she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“Papillon?” Marinette called quietly, voice barely a whisper. It still felt odd for her to try and use her thoughts to communicate with them.

There was no hesitation as they replied, “It's advised for you to be asleep now, Miss Cheng.”

“I just have a question,” she protested weakly. “I'll promise to sleep after that, okay? You don't need to threaten me.”

“There was no threat in my words, child.”

From the lack of emotion, it didn't seem reassuring. “I'm just—I have to ask, do you factor in my happiness to your equations at all?”

“Happiness is relative for your kind,” the _Kwami_ answered, straight forward with the no-nonsense tone that she'd become accustomed to. “I am here to help you achieve success; to live the best life you're capable of, not cater to your fleeting whims and attractions.”

It—it sounded like a no. Marinette swallowed audibly, a prominent lump in her throat, and to her horror she realised that her eyes felt itchy, too. It was an embarrassing reaction that she smothered by pushing her face into her pillow, not wanting her room-mate to hear her crying. If her _Kwami_ wasn't designed to make sure she was happy, then how could it qualify what counted as a good life?

Then, there was the fact that she didn't know how long the supercomputer would be present in her brain. She wasn't delusional; she theorised that metal detectors would pick it up, possibly, and if she happened to get an x-ray, then doctors would become aware of the anomaly in her body. Would they cut her open to remove it? There had been no talk of what would happen after Papillon achieved their purpose—the thought of being stuck with the device forever, forced to do things against her will, made her feel sick.

“There isn't a limit to success, Miss Cheng,” Papillon drawled.

Marinette stiffened, eyes clenched shut to keep the tears at bay. That—she didn't want them to listen into her thoughts, to comment on every fear and worry in the bored tone that sounded increasingly close to mocking. There were times where she could understand Papillon's intentions, sometimes be grateful for them, but late at night where she couldn't sleep due to private fears wasn't one of them.

She sniffed. “What if—if I want something different for myself?”

“I am programmed to enforce my instructions if we have differing opinions,” they pointed out neutrally. Sometimes, she wondered whether they would seem more human to her if their voice had a slight bit of emotion, or if a purely robotic voice would've been more suitable. “Humans are guilty of having their decisions change as the years pass.”

They did have a point there. “Well, yes. That's why there's divorce,” Marinette agreed quietly. “I—will you control my relationships, too?”

The _Kwami_ replied easily, “You are free to befriend those you wish; I will only intervene if they are detrimental to your future.”

“And what of romantic relationships, Papillon?” she whispered, as they hadn't understood the implications of her questions. “I doubt you're capable of making me love someone of your choosing.”

“I can't, of course,” they answered in a drawl. “However, it is within my power to stop your relations with unsavoury humans, child.”

Her heart beat loudly in her chest. “That's a yes, then.”

“Naturally.”

She wondered how different Chloé would've been with the _Kwami_. It had been intended for her, after all, and it was only due to their secret that Marinette had ended up with it. What was it Chloé had said, back in the nightclub? The pill had been expensive, and somehow passed security to make it into the blonde's hands, but it had been a medicine of sorts.

Maybe it wasn't too bad that she was the one to consume it. Papillon would've realised that Chloé wasn't talented in singing, and perhaps would've forced to to pursue a different career; either way, whichever of the two of them swallowed the pill, the contract for Marinette to part ways with the company would've been signed. Although she'd been fretting about it before, trying to decide whether to go solo and gain the recognition, there was no doubt in her mind that she would've ended the agreement without Papillon's help.

The thing she missed most was her relationship with Chloé, the blonde's bodyguard, and the other members of staff that she'd become familiar with. It was a clause that she didn't like, forcing them not to interact any more. Marinette wasn't permitted to message Chloé even via social media, but that didn't stop her from following the blonde's profiles, to see what she had been doing before entering the competition.

Abusing Papillon's abilities to check on her friend didn't seem like a good use of time.

Adrien continued the routine after his performance by saluting at her once more after he'd handed off the equipment, grin showing his dimples as he approached the sitting area for those that had already had their turn.

Marinette simply stared at him blankly before Aurore called for her attention, making sure that they had their routine rehearsed correctly. They weren't performing a ballad that week; Caline had branched out for the for jazzier theme, insisting that they be dressed in shirts and either skirts or shorts with suspenders.

When she stood beside Juleka—who was the tallest, and Marinette's face was on level with her collarbones—she felt insecure by the difference in their clothing. And for that reason, Juleka had been given tight trousers to wear instead, though she didn't complain about the change; if anything, Juleka seemed more comfortable not wearing the tiny shorts that Lila had been provided, much happier as it was similar to the casual clothing she wore around their dorm.

“When you're questioned about your performance, you will mention the Agreste boy in your reply,” Papillon commanded in her head as she'd placed the earpiece in, trying not to tangle the loose strands that escaped her bun around her ear. “If you do not, you know what will happen.”

She didn't answer, instead holding the microphone tighter as she wanted for the cue to go onstage.

Their song was a jazzier arrangement of a popular song. Out of the three choices that Caline had given them, much like every week, she'd almost choked when she saw that a remake of one of Chloé's songs was on the list. It was only due to Juleka siding with her that they avoided having to perform it; as there hadn't been any comments on how similar her voice was to Chloé's yet, that would've finally done it.

She didn't know whether it would count as a violation of her agreement if she performed one of Chloé's songs on live television.

Juleka led them with her unique voice, the one that they'd chosen to be most suitable for the music, and it was afterwards when they were ushered to the edge of the stage by Nadja to hear the criticism from the judges. Armand was pleased that they'd focused less on dancing, still not as involved as they had been with their first song, Penny complimented Juleka's growth from barely having parts to being the main vocal in their performance, and Caline was overly pleased with how well they'd worked together.

“There's been some questions that have been asked a lot, and we're not going to address them,” Nadja started once Aurore had excitedly thanked the judges. “Juleka and Marinette, you two auditioned to be soloists, didn't you?”

The other two did, too. “Yes,” Juleka answered softly, voice only just being picked up by Nadja's microphone.

“As you both managed to get further than Aurore and Lila—no offence to you two, girls—I have to ask, do you feel any resentment that you could only advance as a group?”

“I'm happy to be here and I understand my limitations,” Juleka replied, cheeks colouring red as she shyly tucked hair behind her ear. It wasn't a character that she was playing for the public; it was well known by that point she was quiet and got embarrassed easily, especially when cameras were pointed her way. “Being friends with everyone has made it easier, definitely.”

Nadja grinned widely. “That's good to hear! We've seen some of your chemistry in the montages in the past week, and it's been a pleasure to watch you grow closer.” And with Juleka's part over, Nadja's brown-coloured eyes darted to Marinette's as she looked at her imploringly. “What about you, Marinette? We're well aware that you rejected the option of being a duo with Adrien, so how do you feel about your current group?”

She licked her lips, heart pounding in her chest. It was her chance to mention him without it being awkward, able to follow Papillon's request naturally.

“They're nice,” Marinette started, choosing her words carefully. “It's wonderful to work with people that I like, and it makes it easier when we have to spend time together.”

When she walked backstage, she looked at Adrien and raised two fingers to her head to salute him.

He turned away without acknowledging her.

-x-

Another group was eliminated, meaning her own group and Adrien's were the last ones left for Caline. The female soloists had all four—though they had been in the bottom two for the past few weeks, yet no one had been eliminated—and the male soloists had two remaining, too. That meant that Caline was able to devote more attention to them, rather than dividing herself between four rooms, and the chorographers and vocal coaches were able to, too.

The poll on the website voted for Adrien to have a segment again, but the problem was that he wasn't alone.

Marinette fiddled with her dress as she looked at herself in the mirror, trying not to scowl. The results had been conveyed through Caline the day before—giving them slight warning, rather than it being out of the blue—and it was clear that it was non-negotiable.

Papillon was as happy as a _Kwami_ could be, giving her tips on how to handle her awkward relationship with Adrien. The fact that she'd been chosen to cook with him out of all of the rest of the contestants had her head spinning. Papillon had told her about the comments and compliments that she'd received online, as well as checking the views that she garnered online with her singing, but hadn't warned her of the sudden development.

“I hate you,” she muttered, adjusting her ribbon.

Of course, Papillon wasn't bothered. “Your feelings aren't of importance.”

As always, contestants were told to stay away from the shared kitchen. Marinette shot Lila a disgruntled look as the brunette happily called out to her as she walked through their dorm, footsteps feeling having as she navigated the hallways. There were three members of staff in the kitchen talking to Adrien; she recognised Alya, who was adjusting the microphone that he was wearing, though the other two were unknown to her.

The red-haired female caught sight of her leaning awkwardly against the wall, unsure of what to do with herself. Adjusting her spectacles, Alya crossed the room to stand in front of her, fiddling with the microphone that she needed to put on her.

“Hey,” Marinette greeted, fidgeting as the wires were placed underneath her clothing, and the microphone was placed on the collar of her dress. “I haven't seen you here before.”

Alya snorted. “I work here.”

She flushed. “I meant at the dorms, you know? I always see you during the weekends.”

“That's because you never had the honour of being nominated for this dumb section,” was the wry reply she received. Alya finished adjusting the wires and stood up straight, nodding to herself. “Now, try not to fuck up, okay? We had to cut out a lot of footage last week because that idiot over there wouldn't stop swearing.”

Surprised, she remarked, “Really? We never heard anything about that.”

“It's unprofessional to complain to contestants, so keep it quiet.” The bespectacled female winked, grin growing on her lips. “If your microphone slips, or if you feel uncomfortable with the wires, don't be afraid to call for me, okay? My name's Alya, by the way.”

“Oh, yes,” Marinette agreed, smoothing out her dress from the nerves, needing something to do with her hands, before she offered it out in front of her for a handshake. “I know. I'm Marinette.”

Alya's eyebrows rose so they were visible above the frames of her glasses. “Honestly, I thought you'd forget all about it. I'm kind of just background hands around here—working the magic behind the scenes and getting no glory for being tech savvy.”

“I appreciate your help, thank you,” she replied, her own smile sincere and not the forced polite one that she'd practised in the mirror. “I promise not to drop my microphone this weekend, too.”

The mention of Nino's mistake caused Alya to roll her eyes before Marinette's name was called. She obediently walked across to the kitchen, moving to the countertops in the middle and the large stove, noting the pans, bowls, and equipment that had been placed on display on the sides, ready for use. There was no recipe printed out within view, or a note to tell them what they were going to do. Adrien or the rest of his members hadn't mentioned the section much, other than saying that it was a disaster when they had to cook together.

She awkwardly met Adrien's eyes while a staff member told them to relax, choose a recipe between them and simply talk while they did their tasks. They were encouraged to get to know each other, and they were warned that occasionally, a question that had been sent in from a viewer directed at either of them would be asked.

They were told that filming would start in a matter of seconds, and Marinette used that time to tuck the stray hairs that had escaped her braids behind her ears. From what she could tell from their weekly dinners, Adrien was either the equivalent of Lila in the kitchen, or the brunette had managed to mess up enough to change the quality of the food.

“So,” Adrien started awkwardly, pushing up the sleeves of his shirt until they were at his elbows. “Anything you want to make, Marinette? As long as we've got the ingredients, it's fine.”

She reached up and peeked inside one of the ingredient cupboards. The system of writing down different supplies on a list for them to be delivered was still there, and it took approximately two days for the items to be placed within plastic bags in the kitchen where the list originated from. It was a detail that all of the contestants had been pleased with, especially when they'd all started out with the bare essentials in the beginning.

She was inspecting the different types of flour as she answered, “I can probably work with anything you want to.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised, perhaps at the fact that she wasn't snubbing him immediately. “We could do something sweet for dessert, I guess? Aurore's asked for our dinner to be tonight.”

That was something that she hadn't heard. Usually, they had their weekly dinners before the segment, so she'd assumed that it had been delayed until before the show.

Marinette closed the cupboard and turned to look at him with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure you're able to do that?”

He blinked slowly. “If you're talking about the burnt bits on dinner the other week, that was completely Lila's fault.”

“Sure,” she replied easily, not ready to believe him in the slightest. “There's a reason why I have Lila slice and mix when we cook dinners.”

Adrien's expression brightened up at the last comment, and he wandered closer, arms leaning on the countertop as he looked down at her and asked with a smile that didn't show his dimples, “Oh, you're the one that cooks for your group?”

“Sometimes.” She took a step away and began to search pick out the ingredients they needed. “I usually make breakfast since I'm an early riser.”

“That's nice of you, Marinette.” It sounded almost patronising when it was combined with his insincere smile. “Care to enlighten me on what we're doing?” Adrien asked. Then, he added on, “Since it looks like you've decided.”

As tempted as she was to throw the flour at him, the dark-haired female blandly answered, “Cookies.”

Adrien's laughed didn't sound sincere either. “We don't have any cool cutters, though.”

She shook her head, then searched for a mixing bowl big enough to hold enough dough for eight people. “We don't need to use them, and we can just change the mixture so we have to use a spoon.”

Although they weren't planning to cook too many—as there wouldn't be enough room in the oven—she didn't want to make it so they could only have one each. Adrien let her do as she pleased as she searched throughout the kitchen, happy to just lean against the countertop as he watched her move, and it was only when Marinette had found the equipment and ingredients that they needed that she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Sorry,” Adrien apologised with a half-hearted laugh. “So, since I don't have a clue what I'm doing, you're going to have to lead me. Is that okay with you?”

It wasn't as though she could say no and walk away. Papillon was insistent that she needed to be there, too, so Marinette curled her lips into a insincere smile and answered, “Oh, sure. I'll help you out.”

Even if she wasn't able to recall the recipe that she had in mind, she was sure that her _Kwami_ would successfully provide the information. They were useful for the small details like that, and waking her up in the mornings. Papillon had access to weather sites, too, so they were able to tell if it would rain when she returned from the studio. All the pluses added up, but combined they couldn't outweigh the power of free will.

“Now is not the time for melancholy,” Papillon chastised. “You are required to do something interesting to set this video apart from the others, and to make the public want you to come back. I will instruct you when the time is right.”

That sounded uncomfortable and ominous all at once.

“Do you know the recipe?” Adrien asked, effectively taking her attention away from the _Kwami_. “If you don't, I can go and get my laptop from my room. As long as we don't ruin it, I mean.”

She shook her head. “It's okay, I've got a pretty good memory.” A private smile curled on her lips from that. “If I tell you how much to weigh out, can you do that?” Marinette enquired, gesturing towards the equipment she'd set out.

He ran a hand through his hair quickly. “Yeah, sure. I can do that.”

They worked almost in silence. Marinette relayed the amounts needed, tone as friendly as she could be when it was forced, and Adrien did as he was told without pursuing conversation. The clattering of cutlery filled the silence when she wasn't talking, but she knew that the staff weren't pleased with their reluctance to communicate. Papillon was surely plotting an act for her to do, something to cause viewers to watch their segment more than the previous ones.

She just hoped it didn't involve ruining her dress; it was one of the first she'd bought with her own money.

As Adrien passed the mixing bowl to her, indicating it was her turn to take over the dough for the time being, it was was a clearing of a throat that made her jump. Marinette only just managed not to drop the bowl onto the floor, and whirled around to stare at the employee that scared her with wide eyes.

Alya smiled sheepishly. “We're going to ask a few of the questions that were sent in now,” she announced, reaching up to push her spectacles further up the bridge of her nose. It made sense it was her that was selected to speak; the other two were busy being the camera and making sure other contestants didn't wander inside. “You can continue what you were doing, there's no need to look at the camera.”

“Right,” Marinette agreed, warmth on her cheeks as she steadily placed the bowl on the side.

“This one's for Adrien,” the red-head continued, voice loud and clear, pronouncing each syllable without stumbling over her words. “Why did you audition for this show instead of pursing a different record company?”

He didn't stiffen beside her, but she could see that he purposely looked down at the mixture instead of anywhere else. “I felt like it, I guess?” Adrien answered awkwardly, fiddling with his hands were he was leaning against the countertop. “It seemed like a good opportunity, so I took it. There's not much more to it than that.”

There was definitely more to it, but no one was going to push him to say it. The questions continued for a while; Alya asked their feelings on specific contestants—to which Marinette didn't say her true feelings about, even lying about one female that always dropped food onto the floor in their kitchen—then enquired about their favourite songs that they'd performed, and then the last question was addressed to the both of them, still.

Alya asked, “Why did you two decide not to work together?”

Adrien was busy scooping the dough onto a tray, so Marinette had nothing to occupy her hands. She settled with washing the side, making sure to clear up the flour that had speckled the tiles of the floor.

Realising that she wasn't going to answer first, Adrien's quiet voice spoke up to say, “I don't know, honestly. I was all for it.”

Her stomach clenched uncomfortably. She dried her hands slowly, trying to select an answer of her own due to Papillon's lack of interruption. It was the type of moment where they would be useful, and it would perhaps count as her task that they'd thought of, but when she realised that she was alone, it felt more daunting than before.

“Marinette?” Alya called, trying to catch her attention.

She didn't jump, surprisingly.

Starting to pack the ingredients they'd used away, while the male beside her was still busy with the trays, Marinette answered honestly, “I wouldn't have been comfortable working with him.”

And that was it for the questions. When she looked over her shoulder to see whether there'd be anyone more, Alya gestured for the two of them to continue.

“So, Marinette's a long name,” Adrien started, trying to make awkward conversation with her after he'd placed the trays into the oven. “Do you have a preferred nickname?”

She looked at him with furrowed brows. “My friends sometimes call me Mari.” And it was true—Chloé had been fond of it when they were together, as had the other employees that she'd grown close to. It was a lot better than the dreaded one she'd earned in school, too.

“That's much easier,” he remarked brightly. “Is it okay for me to use it?”

Rather than reply immediately, Marinette stared at him. There wasn't anything honest about the smile he was showing her; she knew that when it reached his green-coloured eyes, when the indents on his cheeks showed, that was one that was sincere and not forced. The politeness that he was showing, the attempt to try and make conversation was causing her to feel conflicted on her purpose—more than anything, she just wanted to walk away, but they had to stand there and talk until their food had finished cooking.

Her lips curled into a frown as she replied quietly, “I said my friends call me that.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Adrien exclaimed loudly, an awkward laugh escaping him as his hand went to the nape of his neck in the self-conscious way that she still recognised. “Okay, I guess I deserved that.”

There was a beat of silence where she kept to herself, lips pursed together as she looked at him in confusion. There was no need to play a character for the camera; Adrien was already the most loved participants, and she was simply one that had started a rivalry with him, one that the public didn't quite understand—she was sure that even he had no idea why it had started.

Papillon chose that moment to speak. “Drop the flour on him,” they instructed.

Her hands stilled from surprise. That—that was an awful idea. It took acting skills that she probably didn't have, and Adrien was just beside her, resting his elbows on the countertop as he watched her packing everything away. The only way she could complete the task was if she was to jostle herself or pretend to trip over, therefore causing the mess, and—

She didn't want to.

Hadn't she already caused a memorable scene with the nickname rebuttal? The other segments wouldn't have that detail in them, though she doubted that they had the participants spilling ingredients over each other.

“When do you ever have a decision, child?” the _Kwami_ drawled, the question non-rhetorical.

Marinette stubbornly kept her hands on the countertop, not touching the bag that was in front of her. She knew that the extent of the supercomputer's control was locking her hands, refraining her from moving certain body parts, and causing pain. So, really, it wasn't as though they could physically control her and make her throw flour all over Adrien. It wasn't the fact that she'd get her dress messy, too, but the idea of it—she didn't want to attract attention due to negativity. The rivalry she'd made with Adrien due to petty reasons was already causing her to receive sufficient praise and attention.

Papillon, listening into her thoughts, chastised her in a bored tone, “Miss Cheng.”

It was the closest they could get to being annoyed.

 _They_ —Papillon was okay, at times. Marinette had grown somewhat fond of the presence in her mind for the last seven months, steadily understanding the lack of sense of humour, sometimes wondering how the replies would be if they had a penchant for bad jokes. Yet, at that moment she was forced to remember the startling fact that bodily harm wasn't something that they considered bad. It was a form of training, punishment, and there would be no qualms or reluctant apologies afterwards from the _Kwami_.

As a throbbing feeling became apparent at the back of her head, warmth dripping and coating her throat, she clenched her eyes shut in protest, refusing to move. She wanted to make her own decisions, to do as she saw fit, but all she could do was stand there as though she was throwing a tantrum over a controlling parent, facial features twisting in pain as the throbs became worse, demanding and needy as they pulsed, her heartbeat audible in her pounding head.

“ _Marinette_?” Adrien exclaimed, voice higher-pitched than usual as he scrambled beside her, and she didn't jump when a hand was placed on her shoulder, and cloth was hurriedly pressed underneath her nose.

She swallowed thickly as she squinted to look at him. Even through blurred vision, he was more panicked than before, visibly concerned as he held the bundled cloth to catch the falling blood from her nose, but all she could focus on was the pounding pain and rapid beating of her heart as she continued to defy the instructions she was given.

Marinette stubbornly kept her grip on the side, trying to stay upright despite the pain, but all she managed to do was lean forward, almost falling on top of the countertop as Adrien adjusted himself to try and stop the bleeding, still. She could hear the staff members talking, but the sounds were too distorted to make out as her eyes fell closed.

-x-

Well, her dress still got ruined, and the cookies burned.

A doctor had been called in, and once it was cleared as a nosebleed with no lingering illness, Marinette was allowed to return to practice the next day. She noticed other contestants giving her concerned looks—it had clearly circled around—and Caline even pulled her aside the following day, asking whether she was up to the task of performing. It wasn't as though she could say no; even if one of them caught a cold, they either had to sing or voluntarily leave the show. There was no forgiveness for special circumstances.

Papillon didn't reprimand her for the defiance, which meant that it had been a success in its own way. The video had still been uploaded, ending with her fainting on the side with Adrien fretting over her unconscious body, and the paragraph underneath updated viewers on her health (which was _fine_ ). From that segment stemmed a short clip of when her nosebleed began until she'd fainted, one that was receiving equal views to her group's last performance.

It was attention, at least. Papillon had to have been pleased with how it had turned out—she couldn't say she was, though.

Adrien was staring at her more than before. The looks were still curious, and when she caught him, he hastily turned away and started a conversation with someone else—so, to put it simply, she felt awkward in his presence. It wasn't as though she liked him again; she'd wanted to defy the orders given and that had resulted in his apparent interest in her. When their groups were together in the same room, he'd try and start conversations with her, and Marinette would reply with short answers and disinterest, trying her best to remove herself from the situation.

The rivalry was still there at the live show. The theme for the week was horror—which could have meant a lot of things, and Caline had made them choose between haunting ballads and lyrics that had disturbing meanings if taken literally—which meant they were walking around in monotone-coloured outfits, including suspenders for Adrien and Nathaniel.

When the blond-haired male walked off the stage, one hand was fiddling with a suspender while the other was raised to salute at her. It seemed to be his preferred way of starting a challenge, one that they never quite turned into a verbal competition.

Until that night, at least. When Marinette came off the stage, tugging up her socks that had started to fall down, Adrien wasn't sitting down with his group. Instead, he was holding a bottle of water and leaning against a wall as he waited, staff members ignoring him as they fluttered past.

Aurore whistled before she took the other two members of their group away with her, going to join the males that were seated, watching the screen to see the performances.

“Hey,” Adrien greeted, awkwardly holding the bottle out for her. “You okay?”

It was a strange development. Marinette had grown used to the question during the week where they'd tried to make small talk—well, he had—but she hadn't quite expected it to happen after a performance. She was sweaty from the lights of the stage, clad in a tight outfit that wasn't too comfortable to move in, and he didn't seem at all pleased with his attire either.

She blinked. “Why?”

He looked conflicted for a moment before settling with, “I'm just worried you might faint on camera again.”

It wasn't his concern, though. Marinette accepted the bottle of water with wary eyes, as if expecting an ulterior motive to pop up, but all he did was stand there awkwardly as she had a drink. The rest of their groups were focused on the screen that showed a montage of the next singer, and she was standing there, silently judging him.

In the end, it returned back to their short conversations in the two hour break, where instead of napping or reading as she usually did, Marinette found herself sitting by their two merged groups, playing a ridiculous card game that they'd been provided with. She laughed, and was able to communicate freely with everyone around, Papillon not forcing her to comply. The most they had done that evening was help her walk stiffly so she wouldn't fall in the high-heeled shoes that had been provided.

The first female soloist was eliminated that evening.

It was one less face in the dorms, the one that always managed to burn their bread in the morning. From living together, everyone had grown to prefer a specific mug—as they'd been provided with different patterned ones—and due to the lists, there was no personal claims over food, as it wasn't their individual money that had bought the items. As her and Adrien's groups were the only ones left, it meant that they were the only ones to use the non-gendered kitchen and living room, so they'd staked claims on mugs that were located there, too.

After dinner, Nino's suggestion of a watching a film found the eight of them scattered around on the various chairs. Marinette had managed to snag herself one of the comfortable beanbags, and she'd happily wrapped a blanket over herself despite the sweltering warmth that had been present in the afternoon.

She hadn't realised she was tired before someone was gently rocking her awake. Marinette jumped from surprise, bleary eyes opening, looking around the dim room, disorientated. She groaned as she pushed the blanket off and rubbed at her face, feeling sluggish and slow due to the sudden disruption, and back slightly aching due to the beanbag—as nice it had been to sit in, sleeping was on another level.

“Come on, you should go to your room.” It was easy to recognise Adrien's voice after living together for five weeks.

She made a non-committal noise as she stood up and stretched. “Where is everyone?”

“They left before you woke up.” He shrugged half-heartedly, taking the blanket that she'd passed aside and started to fold it as he continued to admit, “I asked them to leave us alone for a bit.”

Well, as alone as they could be with cameras dotted on the walls. “Okay?” Marinette replied, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion.

Sure, they'd been somewhat nice to each other since the nosebleed incident; Marinette hadn't uttered any rude comments other than the usual short answers she supplied him with, and she wasn't adamantly avoiding his gaze when they were in the same room. She didn't stiffen up or clench her fists when she heard his voice, nor feel irritated when the polite smiles were sent her way—as it was, she could easily count on one hand the amount of times his smiles had been sincere when they were intended for her.

“So.” He licked his lips. “You're not comfortable with me, and that's why you rejected us as a duet.”

There was no point denying it. “Yes,” Marinette confirmed, voice not cracking despite her rapid thoughts.

“And when I tried to talk to you before, you asked me if I remembered you.” And for a brief moment, she wondered whether he was going to continue to monologue when she could've been walking past to get to her bed, before he quietly enquired, “Did I do something to you before?”

Marinette stared, trying to tell from his expression whether he was sincerely asking, or because he wanted to clear the awkward air between them. There wasn't much of a downside to their rivalry; Marinette wasn't immature enough to sabotage his performances, and there was no violent aspect of their relationship, let alone verbal abuse. The height of her negativity consisted of smug expressions and raised eyebrows, which he readily returned each week.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly, staring up at him as she fiddled with her shirt. “Years ago.”

She watched as he swallowed.

Taking in a deep breath, realising that he wasn't going to answer and simply stare at her with a perplexed expression that didn't belong on his face, the dark-haired female continued and asked, “And you don't even know what it was, do you?”

His reply was barely audible. “No.”

“I know.” Her smile wasn't sincere; it didn't reach her eyes, nor did it curl in the pleasant way it did when she was amused. It seemed almost self-deprecating. “You didn't know me back then, but I cared enough about your opinion to have it hurt me.”

Watching as his chest moved as he took in a deliberately slow breath, Adrien questioned softly, “What did I do? I—I don't know you, Marinette.”

“No, you don't,” she agreed easily. “You probably never noticed me because I wasn't worth your time when I was younger.”

“Younger,” he repeated. “How much younger?”

Purposely tilting her head to the side, Marinette stared up at him as she let out a humourless laugh. “What would be the point in telling you?” she asked rhetorically. “You can't take back what you did, and I don't want to dwell on the past; any apology you give me wouldn't be sincere since you don't _remember_. I'm here to win, and watching you inevitably lose is just a bonus.”

When she'd started to walk away, footsteps filling the silence in the room, he called out to her with, “Marinette, wait!”

Her footsteps didn't falter.

Adrien continued to try approach her. Whether it was in the hallways, during their lunch breaks or even in the evenings when she walked past to go practise by herself, he either smiled at her purposely—that actually showed his dimples, which put her off even more—or started the conversation by telling her a terrible joke that only cause her to stare at him blankly. Rather than the small talk that he'd tried in the past, the blond-haired male had advanced onto addressing her as though they were friends by skipping the greeting and usual questions, catching her by surprise with the silly comments that left him.

It wasn't long before others took notice. Lila in particular laughed about the sudden interest, teasing her when they were in their bedroom. Marinette had resorted to throwing her pillow at her to make her be quiet, but all it did was cause the brunette to cackle further.

When Adrien called her name out when their groups were together in the studio, waiting for their coaches to arrive, there was raised eyebrows all around from the interaction, even more so when answered quietly.

“I can tell him to back off, if you're uncomfortable,” Aurore remarked when they'd split off into their separate rooms. She was tying her long hair into a ponytail, awaiting the choreographer (Caline was still a fan of dancing, no matter how small, in their performances). At the blank look she received, the blonde continued, “Adrien?”

She scowled. “Oh.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Aurore mimicked, stretching in front of the mirrors. They'd become accustomed to ignoring the camera in the corner of the room, deciding it was better to not acknowledge it when they were practising. “It's ridiculously clear that you don't want to talk to him.”

Copying the blonde's movements, Marinette admitted, “Well, not really.” Her eyes flickered to the side, confirming that Lila and Juleka were helping each other on the other side, chatting away. “He doesn't remember, but he was a dick a few years ago.”

“You two knew each other before this?” she questioned, audibly confused.

“Yes.” She shrugged, as though it wasn't a big deal. “We went to school together.”

Aurore audibly hummed in contemplation. “So, he was a jerk to you back in school?” There was a moment where only the other two's chatter filled the silence before Aurore looked up in realisation, blue-coloured eyes wide. “ _That's_ why you said no to him.”

A fleeting thought of wondering whether it was wise to disclose her past appeared. Marinette tucked the stray hairs behind her ears as she admitted, “Yes. I—I just didn't want to be in a group with him, that's all.”

“Fucking hell.” A loud laugh escaped the blonde-haired female, and it was slightly breathy and high-pitched. “You two would've been fucking unstoppable if you paired up, you do know that, right?”

Rather, they would've been known because of his popularity. It was the same situation that the other members of his group were in. “I guess,” she admitted begrudgingly. “I much prefer being with you guys. We haven't been in the bottom two yet, so we still have a chance at winning.”

Aurore snorted. “Yeah, sure,” she agreed sarcastically. “It'll take a miracle for attention to shift our way from wonder boy. It just bugs me that he's so freaking _nice_. I want to hate him, Marinette, I really do.”

“Nice?” she questioned with a laugh.

Stopping her stretching to emphasis her words with her hands, Aurore enthusiastically retorted, “ _Yes_! How am I supposed to compete with him when he just smiles and causes half of the audience to swoon? Then, when he wanders backstage, he's just polite and friendly to everyone, cheering up anyone who thinks they botched up their performance.”

“He's always been like that,” Marinette replied, stretching her legs. “He was popular in school because of that, I think. I never really listened in to the gossip to know whether he had a rebellious stage, so it's possible he's been wonder boy for years.”

The blonde stood up straight, eyebrows furrowed as she turned to look at her and questioned, “So, a popular kid picked on you?”

She blinked. “I—no.”

“You said he was a jerk to you, though,” Aurore pointed out, voice quiet so it wouldn't carry across the room. “What did you mean, then? I really don't want to tell Nino that you really are the mysterious member.”

A laugh escaped her at the mention of Nino. She'd grown closer to the other contestants through the weeks, and she'd wondered whether that title had disappeared once she'd started smiling more, and being less awkward. Marinette shook her head, but their conversation was cut short as their choreographer walked in the room.

As it turned out, they didn't need a miracle for attention to be turned away from Adrien—all that had to happen was for Marinette to have a nosebleed in the previous week's segment. She was astounded when Caline told them that they'd won the selection, and that was how the four of them found themselves in the allocated kitchen together, no sign of Adrien in sight. Although they weren't told how many had voted for them, similar to the live shows, it was an honour to be accepted at all.

Lila was firmly told to only cut ingredients, and she made no protests.

There was banter and good-hearted jokes while they cooked, and inside jokes that they'd acquired from their time together. It was clear that they were comfortable, especially as Marinette bumped her hip against Juleka's to move her aside to reach into a cupboard. The questions were mostly directed at each of them individually, questioning their favourite genre of music, films, and other such topics that the viewers had sent in.

It was Alya that was reading them out again, spectacles perched on the bridge of her nose again. “Marinette,” the red-head called, catching her attention from where she was stirring on the stove. “Any chance of Adrien calling you Mari in the future?”

Heat flooded to her cheeks as she mumbled, “Not likely.”

Lila chose that moment to quip, “Hey, Mari. You got some sauce on your shirt.”

There wasn't any. The smug smile on the brunette's lips proved the point she was trying to make, and Marinette fondly rolled her eyes in return.

As that week's theme for the show was power ballads, Marinette was the lead vocal for the first time. She was excited and pleased all at once, happy with their progress and ability to blend their voices together better with each practice, so it was with a smile that she accepted the formal clothing that the stylists gave her, pleased with the collar and the ribbon around her neck. It was close to the normal style that she chose to wear in her free time, with the exception of the high-heeled shoes that Caline was slowly integrating in with their non-upbeat performances (as there would be less dancing).

Nino had the nerve to ruffle her hair, and that had made her have to return to the stylist's hair and have it completely redone. He didn't look at all sorry, instead grinning widely and showing his teeth as he waved from across the room.

Marinette pointedly glared in his direction.

After the performance, when her fringe was sticking to her sweaty forehead and her heart was beating madly from a mixture of excitement and adrenaline, her look in Adrien's direction was with a wide smile, rather than the smug expression that she usually had.

The bafflement that showed on his face seemed worth it as she passed.

She theorised that he'd been trying to make up for the past—that he was unaware of, still, and it seemed that Aurore was keeping that information to herself—with his natural friendliness, no resentment or spite clear whenever he approached, and that had only caused her to back away more. Having someone dislike him wasn't something he seemed used to; the other contestants were pleasant, even when his popularity was glaringly blatant.

They could've been friends, she'd concluded sometime ago. If her squashed pride from her teenage years hadn't been taken into account, or if they hadn't attended the same school at all, she would've found him easy to get along with. There was nothing abrasive about his personality from what she'd seen; he was polite to a fault, not afraid of confrontation, and preferred to spend his time with positivity, rather than dwelling on the negative.

When he came backstage after his own performance, he sought her out with a returning smile that reached his eyes.

She shifted in her seat as the four males approached their seating area, their routine of waiting together before they were allowed elsewhere for the two hour break still in tact.

“This is mad,” Ivan announced softly as he sat down, raking his hands through his hair. The dyed blond patch was still there at the front, and he'd grown reluctantly fond of it. “We got three compliments.”

Juleka pointed out, “Armand likes you, though.”

“Armand likes anyone that doesn't toss their hair around mid-performance,” Nino pointed out, slouching back and looking far more comfortable than the formal clothing did. “Maybe if you girls had shorter hair, then he'd start singing your praises.”

Marinette pulled a face. “No, thank you.”

“Not a fan of it?” Lila questioned beside her, placing a gentle hand on top of Marinette's head—the difference between her and Nino's touch was astounding, and there was certainly no ruffling. “I think you'd look pretty cute with it cut short.”

Resisting the urge to reach up and touch it herself, the dark-haired female settled with shaking her head, knocking Lila's hand off in the process. “I used to have it short when I was younger, and got mistaken for boy a lot. It was quite frustrating, really.”

“Oh, kids are cruel,” Aurore pitched in. “No wonder you said no when they wanted you to go shorter at the beginning.”

She sniffed. “I'll risk Armand's ire and keep my flowing locks, thank you.”

For being comfortable and relaxing too much, despite the compliments from the judges, when the break was over, Marinette found herself in the bottom two. They were left on the stage as all the contestants apart from a female soloist exited backstage, and her eyes were wide as she looked around to see the darkened figures of the audience, unsure on what to focus on. Lila had already burst into tears beside her—not even trying to hide the dramatic sniffs as she wiped her tears on her hands—and Marinette's hands were cold, heart racing as she wondered where they'd gone wrong.

“There is no need to fret, child,” Papillon drawled, not a reassuring presence at that moment. “Eighty percent of the comments about your performance were positive, and there's a large margin between the votes.”

She stiffened. Did that—had Papillon just confessed to checking the results beforehand? They had never done that before, not bothering to clue her in on which act was set to leave from the public's opinions.

“It is astounding how your opinion of me differs depending on the situation, Miss Cheng.” They sounded as pleased as ever, a bored voice that should've been robotic in her head. “If your future was in danger, it would be acceptable for me to interfere.”

That sounded a lot like they were telling her that they'd cheat the competition in the future to make her win. Her stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought, and her eyes had fallen to stare at the floor as she pondered the revelations that had appeared. If—if Papillon was capable of such things, and didn't have the emotions to make them feel guilty about it, then could they have already interfered?

Aurore suddenly embracing her brought her out of her thoughts. Marinette was visibly startled as she jumped, head whipping around, confused, as she tried to determine what she had missed. From the way the spotlight was on Nadja and the soloist instead of them, she assumed that they'd succeeded and were set to stay for another week.

Yet, she felt guilty.

“I did not change the results,” the _Kwami_ pointed out. “If you were eliminated, it would've thwarted the future plans I've made, and therefore compromised your future and your—” Papillon paused for a moment, for what could've been for dramatic reasons. “And your happiness, too.”

It was either their words that caused her to tear up, or the tight embraces she received when she was backstage. To her surprise, Nino and Nathaniel had hugged each of them briefly as well, proving that they would've been missed if the elimination had happened.

As it was, each judge had two contestants left. Four shows remained and they'd been warned that towards the end of the show, there would be recorded segments to play between the acts—to fill the time that had been lost from the evicted singers—and that meant that they were going to delve into their private life and friendships at the dorms, to show the public who they were voting for more clearly since there were few remaining.

She wondered whether her mother's friends, or their relatives, had looked on the television to see her; whether the kind neighbours that had encouraged her growing up had seen what she'd blossomed into, and for a brief moment as she wiped her tears, she pondered if Chloé would've been pleased for her.

“Hey,” Adrien greeted her, offering tissues with an awkward smile.

A laugh escaped her at how uncomfortable he looked. He was standing before her in the same formal-looking outfit, shifting on the spot as though he was unsure on how to comfort her. Marinette accepted the tissues and tried to clean herself up, though she probably only smeared the make-up further.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

Standing there in front of her, Marinette watched as he opened his mouth before closing it silently a few times, clearly fumbling for words while she tried to clean up her appearance. The cameras were off for the meantime, no they weren't being recorded backstage, yet he'd still approached her. Perhaps it was the guilt from her implying that she'd been wronged by him in the past, or the antagonistic attitude she'd had with him for the past few weeks, but all of it at once seemed exhausting at that moment.

She was just someone that was trying to make it through a survival show, and purposely having a negative relationship with someone was quite taxing, especially for her emotions. And with that thought, her hands stiffened around the tissues that he'd given her as she came to the realisation that she didn't want to do it any more—she didn't want to cling to her childish pride for a personality, nor focus on the irritating events that had happened in her life.

“I'm sorry,” she blurted, face heating up immediately.

He looked dumbfounded. “What?”

“I'm _sorry_ ,” the dark-haired female babbled, hand holding the scrunched up tissue waving around to emphasise her words, a habit that appeared whenever she was nervous. “I—I've been pretty unfair to you, and I know that it's been annoying for you.”

Adrien stared at her, as though determining whether she was sincere or not, and as she shifted awkwardly on the spot, he replied softly, “I wouldn't quite put it that way.”

She blinked.

“As annoying, I mean,” the male explained, shrugging half-heartedly, “I'd call it more confusing?”

“Oh, right,” Marinette agreed easily, reaching up to tuck the loose hairs behind her ears. “Okay.”

It was then, as she watched him not knowing how to reply further than that, that she realised that Papillon hadn't intervened. They had threatening that they'd stop any unnecessary friendships that would harm her success, advising her to antagonise Adrien, and yet when her thoughts of apology and regret about her actions had appeared, there hadn't been a single comment in her head preventing her from doing so. There was no control over her limbs, no painful sensations from disobeying—which meant that, somehow, she'd gained the approval of her intentions without knowing.

Adrien's lips parted to enquire quietly, “Are you still uncomfortable with me?”

It sounded self-conscious and shy all at once, tone more suited to one that came from her rather than the confident figure that he was during the week.

“No.” She shook her head, hands fiddling with the tissues once more. “I—I haven't been for a few weeks, if I'm being honest.”

He nodded, looking thoughtful. “You're not going to have a nosebleed when you're alone with me again, right?”

As long as she had the permission of her _Kwami_ , she wouldn't. “I hope not.” She smiled weakly. “It wasn't exactly nice to wake up to a doctor hovering over me.”

“That's not your kind of fantasy, then?”

A loud and abrupt laugh escaped her, and she quickly covered her mouth, horrified as curious eyes flickered their way. Adrien's grin was wide and showed his teeth as she looked over to him, not at all regretful that they'd possibly annoyed the staff that were cleaning up the backstage. They'd already outstayed their welcome after the show, as they were usually ushered off back to the dorms after the eliminations, as it was already dark outside.

-x-

Papillon explained when they were alone that there was no negative side to her relationship improving with Adrien. Well, rather, they'd stated that by their calculations, it would propel her popularity further on the internet, especially when it became clear that the rivalry had turned friendlier than it had before.

With the blessing in place, and the sourness of her teenage self shoved to the side after she'd uttered her apology, Marinette found herself able to smile freely, laugh at any of the jokes that the other contestants uttered, and generally be allowed to enjoy herself without limitations. When Adrien was paired with her for cooking their weekly meal for their groups, she didn't utter any complaints. Even when they received curious looks from their other members, and raised eyebrows as there hadn't been any arguments or silence as they worked together, Marinette didn't feel forced or awkward.

It was nice, actually. Papillon relayed the statistics of the previous show's episode, the popular performances, and opinions about the contestants; it was all information that she alone had, as the rest of the occupants in the dorms were highly limited with their internet searches, and even their phone calls that came through the phones provided to them were monitored. As such, Marinette knew that one of the male soloists had a video of himself online from when he was performing in primary school, one that was being mocked by the internet for his poor performance.

Adrien had started a new habit, too. When they walked past each other between practises, or even in the hallways of the dorms when they were going in different directions had didn't have time to stop, he'd remark that he was sorry, and leave it at that.

She didn't know whether to laugh or not.

When he did it again, after dance practice where her sweaty hair was contained in a ponytail other than the annoying bangs that fell out of her clips, Marinette reached out and caught onto his shoulder to stop him from walking away.

As he turned around to look at her with raised eyebrows, she pointed out with a grumble, “I said I didn't want an insincere apology.”

“Well,” he started, looking pleased despite the chastisement. “This was the only way I could think you getting you to bring it up yourself.”

She stared at him incredulously. “By annoying me?”

“It's a talent of mine, apparently.” The blond-haired male waved a hand dismissively as she removed her own from his shirt. “So, on a scale of one to ten, how much of a dick was I to you?”

At least he wasn't attempting to deny it. “At the time, it was a ten,” Marinette answered honestly. “It's about a three now, since adults are much worse with their rudeness.”

“Okay,” Adrien accepted. “That meant we were definitely a lot younger, like you said before.”

She squinted. “I guess.”

“What an ambiguous answer.” He huffed out a laugh. “I'm assuming this was in person, too?”

With a nod, she confirmed that.

“I didn't spill a drink on you or something, did I?” Adrien questioned, tilting his head slightly to the side as he looked at her thoughtfully. “That seems like a ten at the time, and I'd probably hold a grudge if they didn't apologise.”

She snorted. “No.”

With a hum, Adrien took his time before he responded with, “Okay, so, young and in person. I can't think of much that could've happened unless I bumped into you randomly? I wasn't allowed out much as a kid because of strict parenting.”

“Teenagers, not kids.”

He grinned. “Teenagers _are_ kids.”

Before they could continue, he was called away by Nino's loud voice, interrupting them to say that his group were expected elsewhere. It was understandable; Marinette was due to check in with Caline before they were allowed to practice alone, as their choreographer had departed for the day.

When she was present with her group in front of their red-haired mentor, her eyes grew wide in disbelief when she was informed that she'd been voted for again to cook in the segment with Adrien. The previous week's select of her group only had given her a confidence boost until she'd found herself in the bottom two, yet the selection had her feeling uneasy despite the honour of being chosen.

Alya greeted her the next day with a microphone to clip onto her clothing, and witty comments about her co-worker that was lurking in the corner, arms crossed with a grumpy expression as they kept lookout for other contestants. Marinette didn't feel as awkward in front of the camera as she did before, though she did feel nervous due to the lack of interference from Papillon. The _Kwami_ had been quiet about her decisions since the apology, not controlling her actions at all.

“Hey, Mari,” Adrien greeted her as they were directed to stand together.

She didn't correct his usage of the name. “Hi.”

“Any preferences this week?” he asked, gesturing around to the different equipment that had been placed on the countertops for them.

After some debate, they decided to make a savoury recipe of his choice. The conversation wasn't as forced or awkward as it had been before, and Marinette found herself smothering her laughter in her hands when he dropped their food onto the floor by accident, missing the plate with a distraught noise. The questions they'd been asked were generic, questioning their opinions on performances, and asking how devastated Marinette had been to find herself in the bottom two. They weren't questioned on their relationship, though she didn't doubt that there had been enquiries sent in.

“So, now that the cameras are gone,” Adrien started smoothly once Alya had disappeared through the doors, departing after the segment was finished. “Is it safe to ask about our dark past?”

She tried not to smile. “As long as you never refer to it as that again.”

“Our dramatic backstory, then,” he quipped, smiling.

“No.”

He held his hands up in a sign of surrender. “The time of our teenage woes.”

“I take back my apology,” Marinette deadpanned.

With a laugh, the blond-haired male protested, “You can't do that!”

“I can when you're insufferable,” she replied easily, allowing herself to grin at his dramatically hurt expression. “We went to school together, Adrien.”

His expression morphed into a genuine one of surprise, complete with parted lips. “What?”

“We didn't have share classes, if that's what you're going to ask,” she pointed out quickly, reaching up to scratch her cheek self-consciously from the stare that she was receiving. “You were pretty rude to me one time, then we never actually spoke again—I recognised you when we were asked to work together, so, that's why I rejected you.”

With furrowed eyebrows, Adrien enquired, “Are you sure?”

“Yes?” She tilted her head slightly as her hand dropped. “If you're asking if I know if it was you, then, yes, definitely; you haven't changed that much, other than growing into your body.”

“Not what I meant.” He shook his head, making his bangs become misplaced and fall into his eyes briefly, and he raised a hand to brush them out of the way, fingers going to his nape to fiddle with the hairs there in a uncertain way. “I just—I would've recognised you.”

That caused her to look at him, confused. “Why?”

“You're— _you_ ,” the blond explained lamely, gesturing towards her, as though that explained everything he was trying to say.

”...Yes?”

With a frustrated noise, his hands dropped to his side. “I—you've got a distinctive look about you?” It sounded like a question.

She narrowed her eyes. “I hope you're not trying to be offensive there.”

Colour flooded his cheeks as he quickly protested, “I meant you're _attractive_ , Marinette!”

“Oh,” she replied dumbly, surprised from the confession. “Thanks?”

“You're welcome.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes looking anywhere but at her as the tops of his cheeks were tinged red. “I'm horribly embarrassed, so I'm going to walk away now, okay?” And without waiting for a reply, Adrien started to do just that as he repeated, “ _Okay_.”

The laughter that escaped her only made him walk faster.

It was a compliment, definitely. Gone were the days of her having to patch up old clothing, stuck with cheap shampoo that left her hair feeling brittle, and her healthy diet had improved her figure significantly as she grew up. Marinette imagined that if her old school-mates were to see her at that moment, to share at her on television and recognise that she was able to take care of herself, then she felt the right to smile smugly as she smoothed out the material of her clothes as she walked.

It hadn't been the transformation of an ugly girl blossoming into a beauty like in fiction; Marinette had received compliments when she was younger on her cute face, especially her nose when she was first going to school, and it had only been a matter of quality of clothing and shopping that they'd bought over the years, including the food, and even cleaning supplies.

Her mother was much the same, which made pride swell up in her chest when her mother returned home occasionally over the years, cheeks flushed as she explained that she'd been asked on a date, or complimented for her appearance. It was nice to see her mother happy, even more so from knowing that it was her that was able to provide for them, though she had never resented her mother for their previous living situation—she had looked after her to the best of her ability from the constant jobs, and the limited money from a single parent household.

It wouldn't been different if her father would've been alive. When she was younger, Marinette had fantasised about how strange the life would've been; from the glasses without chips in them, to the high-quality television, or cell phone, that her class-mates had gushed about in their free time.

It wasn't a perfect life she was living, but it was _hers_. Marinette was happy with how it had turned out, proud that she was able to pursue her ambitious curiosity to see whether she could get anywhere singing, rather than following the teacher's advice and continuing her education.

And then, Papillon had happened.

When she was in her bedroom—Lila busy watching a film with Aurore, so she wouldn't be back for another hour—clad in the pyjamas that were suitable for walking to get a drink if she was thirsty, Marinette pulled a pillow to her chest as she contemplated the position that she was placed into.

“Papillon?” she called, voice soft and almost muffled by the fabric against her face. “You've been... quiet lately.”

There wasn't a moment of silence before they answered steadily, “I am at my intended volume consistently.”

The laughter that escaped her was quiet due to the pillow, though. “That's not what I meant! You're not making your opinions on my relationships known.”

“I do not possess opinions, Miss Cheng.” And if it was anyone else, it would've sounded like a joke. “I am simply re-evaluating my programming.”

That didn't sound ominous at all. Marinette's brow knitted together as she pondered the possibilities, wondering whether the _Kwami_ was able to receive updates from the safety of her brain, especially since they were able to access the internet and collect information that wasn't there before it had been created.

So, on a whim, she questioned, “Why?”

That time, there was silence while she awaited the reply. Marinette grew increasingly confused due to the late answer, a feat that she wasn't used to due to the supercomputer's usually prompt interactions. There had never been a time when she had to wait for too long; when she requested information about the weather, it was a matter of moments before she was told the answer—and sometimes more than she asked for, and definitely more than she could read—and yet, she was sat there in the eerie silence that she hadn't experienced with a conversation with herself since before the pill had entered her body.

“Papillon?” she called, worry seeping into her voice.

When they replied, there was still no tone to their words as they stated, “I am calibrating myself to understand your concept of happiness to a higher level.”

Her breath caught. “I—I thought you didn't care about my happiness.”

“I do not have feelings,” the _Kwami_ promptly pointed out, voice blank and unwelcoming all at once. “From research and listening to your internal thoughts, I have become aware of faults in my programming that I am attempting to rectify swiftly.”

It—it was more than she could've hoped for months ago. “Why does it matter now?” the dark-haired female enquired in a whisper, closing her eyes as she leaned against the fabric. “It doesn't change your orders if I disagree with you.”

“You disobeying my advice succeeded before, resulting in a better result than I had calculated,” Papillon drawled, not sounding as though they were pained to admit they were wrong—Marinette knew that as a computer, it couldn't have been easy to realise that there was a fault in their system, no matter how small due to the limited self-awareness. “It made me... wonder.”

Inaudibly, she mouthed to herself, “ _Wonder_.”

And that was _fascinating_. Computers weren't made to wonder; Papillon's sole function was to improve her life without taking in petty human feelings into account, and yet in their time together, she'd somehow made them doubt their programming due to her stubbornness. She'd never anticipated that it would happen, nor did she know what to expect from the sudden change.

“It is the term that seemed most fitting,” the _Kwami_ continued, not bothered from her surprise. “I have been freely observing your interactions for the past few days, and I will compare the results once the public have viewed the newest episode.”

It was a trial, then.

With that in mind, Marinette worked hard in practice, accepting the advice and pointers there were given to her, harmonising with Aurore's voice that was deemed to be the most fitting for their upcoming song, and she was sluggishly tired when the two groups sat down in the non-gendered kitchen to eat dinner together. Thankfully, she wasn't picked.

Adrien was still embarrassed from their last interaction, and she learned that when he was teased—and therefore further embarrassed—the tops of his ears grew red to match his cheeks.

The theme for that week was disco, and the stage was complete with a shining ball that glittered during the performances. Adrien's group went before hers, and rather than the smug smile or salute that was sent her way, he simply grinned, his cheeks reaching his eyes as he did so.

She returned it.

After wiping her sweaty hair away from her face, laughing at a ridiculous joke that Lila had made as they stumbled backstage, Marinette sought the blond-haired male out on instinct, raising a hand to wave at him with a smile as she carefully passed the microphone over to a member of staff (after the incident with Nino, the contestants that had seen it happened were more than happy to mock him for it, even more so since Alya was holding a grudge against him for it).

Marinette sat down next to him as they watched the ongoing performances, happily accepting half of the blanket that he'd acquired, as the others were doing the same.

“Thanks,” she whispered, bunching it up in her hands to get comfortable.

The smile she got in return looked sleepy.

She wasn't in the bottom two, and Adrien's group had never been near it, from what she knew. Papillon hadn't ever revealed the full rankings, or the correct ones other than who was most voted for, so it wasn't a surprise to know that the brother group to hers had passed. Marinette's heart was beating loudly when she walked off stage, relieved with grateful tears filling her eyes as she accepted the hugs that were given—even Ivan came forward and gave each of them a squeeze, happy that they'd gotten through.

When Adrien opened his arms out to her with a sheepish expression, she'd laughed loudly and shook her head before accepting it.

There had never been any malice to his words since they'd met each other again; although he didn't remember her, and hadn't even pestered her about it since her reveal, she wondered whether it bothered him at all. There was no resentment she held towards him still, though the reminder of the nosebleed she'd had to endure was still fresh.

The fact that Papillon hadn't threatened bodily harm in a week was wonderful.

A female soloist was eliminated, while the other one had been in the bottom two, too.

-x-

At the start of the following week, Marinette walked to the studio with a knitted hat covering her ears to protect her from the suddenly cold morning. With the elimination, it was her group and one soloist left in their dorm, meaning it was becoming increasingly quiet and sparse as time passed. The boys' dorm wasn't doing much better, as they only had one more occupant than theirs.

It was strange to see the faces she'd come to know leave, but it meant that she was doing something right—that her group was. With every empty bed, it was a success and a compliment all at once, no matter how odd and out of place it felt. Marinette wondered whether the soloists that had shared bedrooms together had felt lonely when their room-mate had disappeared.

“Morning,” Marinette greeted Ivan, who was leaning against the wall outside of their designated room to meet Caline first, where the red-haired female would usually announce the show's theme that week before dismissing them into separate rooms. “Where's everyone?”

He shifted his feet. “Getting some water for everyone since Caline told us to wait an additional half an hour.”

“What?” she questioned.

Gesturing to the door, the wide-shouldered male continued and explained, “She went inside and locked the door after that, so I'm assuming it's something secretive inside for us to see.”

Her curiosity was piqued.

As he'd said, the rest of their group-mates returned a few moments later, with plastic water bottles hoarded in their arms. Lila happily passed them over since they were cold to touch, apparently, and Marinette had to fumble and try to keep them in her arms as the brunette stretched out her arms without a care.

She scowled. “Thanks for that.”

“I'm a good person,” Lila retorted, tying her hair up in preparation. “You called me weak for complaining about the cold last night, so you can deal with this.”

Narrowing her eyes, Marinette pointed out, “You're not even wearing a jacket.”

“That's because my shirt clashes with the only warm jacket I brought along.” Lila shrugged. “Anyway, I'm sure you'll regret your hat when you take it off later, and everyone starts to mock your hair.”

Childishly, she stuck her tongue out.

Any retaliation was interrupted by the noise of the door unlocking, and it seemed that they all turned to stare at the moving handle in synchronisation, awaiting the figure of their mentor stepping aside to welcome them in.

“Hello, guys,” Caline greeted, red-stained lips curling into a friendly smile that they'd become accustomed to. Yet she didn't stand aside, instead staying rooted in the middle of the doorway so no one could advance. “A quick piece of advice for today—there's actual cameramen here, so try not to embarrass yourselves too much.”

That didn't sound reassuring at all. There had never been cameramen present for their weekly induction, nor for their practices during the day; they only saw them for the weekly segment, and the live stages each weekend.

With a gulp, Marinette watched as Caline opened the door wide and walked back inside, high-heeled shoes clicking as she moved. Glancing at Lila beside her with raised eyebrows, it was Nino that walked into the room first, an awkward whistle escaping him as he tried to relieve the nervous atmosphere that had appeared around them.

Rather than the single chair that Caline sat in, there was a lot more, enough for the eight of them to sit down, and one more. Marinette had barely had time to take in that information before she caught sight of a hulking figure and a female lurking in a corner, with their backs to them so their weren't recognisable immediately.

It was clear that that was why the door was locked, though.

“So,” Caline began as she sat down, elegantly perching one thigh upon the other with grace, “I'm sure you've noticed our newcomers.”

A murmur passed between them.

“Armand and Penny are having similar interactions right now, rest assured that you're not being unfairly spoiled.” She grinned. “Why don't I let my friend introduce herself, yes?”

And with that said, the red-head turned her head towards the corner with a smile, and the rest of them followed suit.

Her stomach lurched as she caught sight of the blonde-coloured hair.

There was no mistaking it as she turned around, the long strands tossed over her shoulder effortlessly as she approached, no spectacularly intimidating noise from high-heeled shoes as she moved, not the sounds that she'd always associated with her. Instead, Chloé walked across the room with her head held high, clad in tight jeans and a blouse that she'd always remarked was too transparent in the light.

Marinette felt sick.

She was sure that there was a visible reaction on her face, but the ones seated around her were too busy gasping and whispering excitedly to each other, not paying enough attention to notice the way Marinette folded her arms around her stomach in a way to comfort yourself.

“I'm Chloé, in case you've been living under a rock,” she introduced herself, coming to stand a metre away, promptly ignoring the cameraman in the corner that was capturing everything. There was no pointed wink at the camera, nor a sultry smile that she was known for; instead, her blue-coloured eyes were darting between each of them, growing increasingly amused as she did so. “Apparently, I'm capable of giving you lot some advice.”

Aurore, one that never had much tact, blurted out as she raised her hand, “I'm a huge fan!”

“As you should be.” Chloé grinned widely, looking predatory as her gaze flickered from Aurore to fall onto Marinette. “We'll get onto singing about my achievements in a moment, if you can wait.”

As the blonde-haired female's feet came to stand in front of her, Marinette averted her eyes to stare adamantly at the floor, focusing on the boots that she'd once asked Chloé to wear instead of the usual high-heeled shoes. Her stomach clenched and she audibly swallowed, utterly unsure whether it would be forgivable to acknowledge Chloé more than anyone else had.

Her conflict was ruined by Chloé interrupting her with a scoff and the pointed comment of, “Oh, stop being ridiculous.”

She leaned back in surprise, wide eyes flickering up to see the sincere smile that was sent her way before Chloé moved forward, wrapping her arms around Marinette despite the fact that she was sitting, and the blonde was standing.

“Marinette,” Chloé called loudly, sounding amused and displeased all at once. “If you don't hug me in one minute, I will hurt you.”

Her eyes felt hot as she wrapped her arms around Chloé's waist. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://xiueryn.tumblr.com) (•ө•)♡


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